Incandescent
by Phantom Rose 0617
Summary: Christine has struggled to raise her son and live her life without Erik. Believing he is dead, what will happen when she finds out Erik is very much alive? Sequel to ALW musical/LND rewrite with Leroux and Kay influences. In progress. [Working on future chapters. Please forgive the long delay. Thank you to those still interested in this story.]
1. Chapter 1 - The Living Dead

**INCANDESCENT**

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by: Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay, Andrew Lloyd Webber, Ben Elton, Frederick Forsyth, and including but not limited to various publishers and companies associated with _The Phantom of the Opera_ since its first French publication in 1909/1910 and its first English publication in 1911. Any song lyrics from _The Phantom of the Opera_ or _Love Never Dies_ musicals referenced herein belong to Richard Stilgoe, Charles Hart, and Glenn Slater. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

A/N: Any discrepancies or liberties taken with historical persons, places, or events in this story are entirely my own.

I saw _LND_ in June of 2018, and I was so inspired by the performances, particularly that of Bronson Norris Murphy as the Phantom, that it made me want to write again. Other than my story, "Something More," this is the first story I've written in over a decade. So, thank you to everyone who reads! It is much appreciated. Feedback is welcome. Cheers!

* * *

 **Chapter 1 – The Living Dead**

 _ **He**_ was alive!

How long had she wished for it? How long had she dreamed of it?

But the reality of it had shocked her!

Gustave had been playing with the music box, the one that had been given to him when they had first arrived at the hotel. Her son's blue eyes had danced with delight at the black gift box, wrapped with a beautiful red and gold bow tied meticulously around the middle. He had eagerly opened it before they were unpacked, before the attendants had even left their suite. The tall barker—Dr. Gangle, he had introduced himself as with a sweeping bow at the docks—had promised to report back to his master the young boy's pleasure at the gift. When the man had mentioned his _master_ , Christine had assumed he had meant Mr. Oscar Hammerstein. If she had known the truth then, she was not so certain she would have allowed the gift.

When the well-known impresario had invited the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny and his wife ("the soprano of the century" as the press sometimes called her, though Christine disliked the moniker, preferring to be called by her maiden and stage name of Daaé), along with their son, Gustave, to New York City, Christine had cautiously seen it as an opportunity to perhaps right some of the wrongs that had plagued her family of late. A new opera house in a new city! America was on the forefront of innovation and industry, buzzing with an energy and vigor that was lacking in the stuffy drawing rooms of Europe. Its people seemed eager to lead the world into the twentieth century. It was exciting, the thought of it energizing to her after so many years of suppressing her talent behind the closed doors of the privileged upper classes. To Christine, it was a chance for a fresh start!

She had read a bit about Mr. Hammerstein, the cigar mogul who was building his new Manhattan Opera House to rival the famous Metropolitan Opera. Born in Prussia, he had run away to America in his youth after selling his beloved violin. He became a successful manufacturer, but his true love was music, particularly opera. And his enthusiasm for the art was breathing new life and popularity into a genre that was quickly becoming overshadowed by vaudeville variety shows. It was this passion for music, which came across in his letters, that had tipped the scales in convincing Christine to come to America. She was not, as was commonly thought by the public and particularly the press, doing this solely for the money. But that was the prevailing opinion, as evidenced by the scathing comments from the reporters who had swarmed her family at the docks, after they had disembarked from their ship, the Persephone, eager for a glimpse of the famous diva.

She had departed the ship with a sense of purpose, dressed in her best red velvet traveling frock, head held high, but that feeling of hope had quickly vanished as she was surrounded by unfamiliar, though not entirely unfriendly faces, questioning why she and her family had come to America. She had said little, smiling and nodding at the crowd, but Raoul had been incensed to the point of being rude to them. Gustave had been an angel, of course. He had enjoyed the attention, talking to the people unguardedly of the places he wanted to see and the things he wanted to do while in New York. She had played along with her son, leaving Raoul to deal with the brunt of the questions. She was not looking forward to reading the articles regarding their arrival and, as she had done in London and Monte Carlo before that, decided she was determined to avoid the papers altogether.

Mr. Hammerstein had not been at the pier to greet them, as promised, and the ride in the bizarre horseless carriage that had magically appeared for them, amazing though it was, had set her teeth on edge. Raoul had been displeased, barking at the drivers now and again, outraged that they had not been met in person by the man who had promised them the moon and the stars in his letters. Perhaps, after all, they—like so many others in this ever-changing city—were just a novelty; a novelty that didn't even warrant a proper greeting from their host. Perhaps he had been too busy to bother, or maybe he wasn't as excited about their coming as he had appeared in his letters. Either way, it instilled in Christine a sense of foreboding she had not felt when they had left England for America on this strange journey. When she had stepped off the ship onto the pier, it had felt like the hands of fate were leading her, but the ominous feeling in the pit of her stomach as she rode in the carriage would not go away, and her unease only increased as Raoul later lamented on their situation a little too loudly as Gustave played with the music box in the corner of their spacious hotel sitting room.

Her son was the only one enjoying himself, his childlike innocence and glee at their arrival apparent in his every gaze and gasp and guffaw as they traveled to Coney Island. Coney Island! Well, it was not Manhattan. But Gustave was getting his wish. He was getting to see the sights he had only dreamed about in London. His wonder and delight at the carriage, his eyes alight on the astonishing marvels out the window, had been palpable. The crowds were thick, the seaside beautiful, and they had only had a brief glimpse of the astounding place from the carriage. But everywhere, Coney Island was positively teeming with life and movement and energy.

When they had passed through black wrought-iron gates and pulled up to a large hotel complete with towers and turrets like a fairytale castle, her heart had fluttered in her chest. Descending the carriage, passing off her feeling as merely fatigue from their journey, her eyes had lifted to the sign above the striped red and white hotel awning. _Mister Y's Phantasma._ For a moment, she thought her eyes had deceived her, and she'd quickly dropped her gaze to the ground, concentrating with too much care on the steps beneath her. Despite this, she had nearly stumbled out of the carriage.

"Mother?" Gustave had asked with concern. "Are you all right?"

He had put out his hand to steady her, already a gentleman at the age of ten. Raoul had hopped out of the carriage behind them and ascended the hotel steps without a backward glance.

"Yes. I'm fine, darling," she had reassured him, glaring in Raoul's direction. Whatever faint feeling she had experienced the moment before was gone. And she had raised her chin, her arm entwined with her son's, the proud opera diva once more as she and Gustave had followed Raoul into the hotel.

Later, as she stared out the hotel windows near the balcony at the lights—what lights!—glittering in the distance as the sun set, she sighed with resignation. She did not want to argue with Raoul, not in front of Gustave.

"We need the money," she had said meekly, almost off-handedly to her husband with her head down, not willing to meet his eyes, as if she were blaming all their problems on that alone. Raoul thought she was blaming him. As insistent as he had been that they come to New York, he now sounded like he was regretting it.

The truth was that money was the least of their problems. She had been poor before, had grown up poor, and she was not afraid of poverty. No, if it were only about the money, they would not be in an unfamiliar land, peddling her skills to someone she had never met, someone she had only read about in the newspapers, who had sent letters to Raoul as if he were her business manager instead of her husband. And perhaps that's what he was; that's what they had become: partners in business—if not in life and love—but certainly not equals. She had not even been included in the correspondence between the two men, as if her opinion did not matter. And the initial decision to come to America had largely been Raoul's, as they had fled Monte Carlo and later London, boarding the Persephone as if the devil himself had been on their heels.

She had not asked Raoul about Monte Carlo, had avoided the gossip columns and ignored the whispered chatter that followed them around like an unwanted rain cloud. She had said little in London when the last letter had arrived from Mr. Hammerstein addressed to him. Raoul did have the courtesy to _ask_ her if she would go to New York, if she would sing, if not for his sake then for Gustave's. He often used Gustave as a bargaining chip between them. He had not begged, but she had seen the desperation in his eyes, the fear if she said no. What would happen to them if she said no? So, she had agreed, never confiding her own reasons for doing so.

She had sung little after they had left Paris, that light in her dying as the music gradually faded to a dull pinpoint in her life, and even less once they were established in London. She had led a rather empty life as a wife, hosting small social gatherings and soirees for her husband and his friends and business associates. She did not like London society. It made her feel weary and resigned. It suffocated her creativity and snuffed out her desire to express her art, like extinguishing a candle in the dark. And she feared perhaps the light would have died from her completely, if not for Gustave.

Oh Gustave! He had saved her! After losing her father, after losing _**him**_ , she wasn't sure how to go on with her life. She had felt dead inside. The weeks following that shocking obituary notice in the newspaper _L'Epoque_ ("Erik is dead!") were spent in despair and mind-numbing melancholy. She could scarcely believe it, wouldn't believe it! He couldn't be gone! He couldn't be dead! But as the minutes and hours turned into days, and the days into weeks, with nothing to prove the newspaper wrong, with no contradiction that the report was false, a horrible feeling of hopelessness had fallen over Christine. That same despondency that had settled over her after the death of her father returned. She could scarcely rise from bed to go through the motions of daily living, until one day she did not stir at all, and Raoul had become rather worried.

Raoul had moved her belongings from the little apartment in the Rue Notre-Dame-des-Victoires to his Paris manor where he could watch over her. He had settled her into his finest guest rooms and called in the best doctors his money could buy as her eyes lost focus, as her skin paled and her hair became limp, as her body gave out and the fever overtook her.

Dissatisfied with their diagnoses, unable to accept their assertions that she would likely die, he eventually dismissed the physicians one by one until only Dr. Drouet remained. The kind, middle-aged man held out hope while the others did not. Raoul had even sent his long-time family physician packing, disregarding the many years of service the man had devoted to his family. He would not accept defeat, and he had lost his temper one night when the man suggested he was wasting his time on "a little chit who was not worthy of the effort." Raoul had dismissed the doctor before he could say more. No doubt his aim had been to caution Raoul of his continued association with a chorus girl. It was nothing he had not heard before, the difference in their stations making such comments inevitable.

"To your own folly," the man had warned as he had slammed the front door behind him. And good riddance, Raoul had thought!

He had almost lost Christine then, and would have lost her, if Dr. Drouet had not intervened in that crucial moment when her life had been hanging delicately in the balance between life and death.

* * *

"Mademoiselle, you need to fight. You need to live! For the sake of your child, please don't give up," the doctor's soft voice had called to Christine amidst her fever dreams.

Raoul was not in the room. He was rarely in the room when the doctors attended her, and she did not want him there. She had said as much, had told the various doctors and their helpers, the maids and household staff, to send him away when he hovered too near her sick bed. If he was hurt by her display of cold indifference to him during that time, he never showed it.

Christine tried to focus on the impossible words coming from Dr. Drouet's lips as her eyes fluttered open.

She had been dreaming of Erik! She wanted to rejoin him in that place where she had left him, all smoke and mist and candlelight, that world of music that was fading away as each day passed. It had been so warm and inviting there. Not like here! Eyes open, the pain had gripped her. She felt cold despite the numerous blankets covering her. She wanted to descend back into the darkness, but the doctor's words had jarred her out of that peaceful place.

 _Child!_ But no, that couldn't be right! She had surely misheard him. She could scarcely breathe or move her body, which was weighed down by illness and apathy, but her eyes met the doctor's, and she saw the truth of his words, the concern evident on his weather-beaten face.

Dr. Hugo Drouet became her friend during a time when she had desperately needed one. The other doctors had been impersonal. Dr. Drouet was different. A man of middle income, middle means, she wasn't sure how he had ended up at the Chagny estate. He had merely appeared one day with the others, coming in and out of her room like clockwork. She remembered his lilting voice reading to her after the others had gone, along with their cold instruments and probing fingers. He had given her something that smelled of candy to help her rest. He had gently helped her sip her tea. He had spoken to her of the many topics going on outside the walls of the estate. He had told her stories. He had made her laugh. She didn't think it was possible to do so anymore, the delirium bringing her in and out of consciousness. Everyone else was so grave and serious. But those moments when she was lucid, she remembered his presence always at her bedside.

Later, she recalled how he had held her hand as though he were her fond uncle instead of her physician. She remembered his words as plainly as if they had been spoken to her yesterday.

"I do not judge you. Truly I do not," he said one day after her fever had broken, and she was sitting up in bed. She was still too weak, but some color had returned to her face. "May I speak plainly, mademoiselle?"

She nodded, not sure she wanted to hear what he had to say. But he had been so courteous to her. She knew she must hear him out.

"You and the Vicomte are not married," he stated the obvious after some silence. "And in the eyes of some, this would be seen as a mortal sin."

 _An unmarried woman with a child._ She knew she would be looked down upon by the church and many of its followers. Raoul was staunchly Catholic. And while her mother had shared that religion, her father had been Lutheran. She had been too young when her mother had died to remember much, and her father had never been particularly devout in his faith. A cathedral or an open field, a prayer or a simple story, a hymn or a folksong—they were all the same to her father, who had been a preacher of kindness and good deeds rather than an advocate of pious speeches when it came to matters of the church.

If she told Raoul the truth of her child, even if he accepted her, were it to be known outside of the family, it would cause a terrible scandal. He may not even marry her. She wasn't sure how she felt about this. She thought she could bear his anger, even his desertion—and he would be justified in doing so. But she was less certain she could handle it if the truth were to become known, as these things so often did once one person was told. She would not want Raoul to have to carry such a burden. The thought of thrusting her trials upon others was unthinkable to her.

"I am a man of the world," the doctor continued. Her mind had drifted; she had almost forgotten he was there. "And I have been in love. I was lucky enough to know the love of a woman, to have the love of a child. Even if that child does not reside with me. A child is a gift, a blessing—no matter how the union was wrought."

He sighed deeply, and this was when she really looked at the doctor as though seeing him for the first time. There was a gray tinge to his blue-black hair. His dark eyes were kind, yet bright. There were lines around his mouth and deep grooves on his forehead. He had a fine, chiseled nose. All in all, he was very distinguished-looking, but carried a demeanor that made him respectably plain, average of features, if not handsome. And yet, there was an air of understanding, a twinkle of humor in his warm eyes, despite his modest appearance. He had lived in the world, as he had plainly said. He had experienced _something_ , she wasn't sure what, that had made him sympathetic to her plight. She had already decided she liked and trusted him. Perhaps one day, she would understand him better, for she realized she hardly knew him. As it was, they were speaking of her problems, not his, so she could only accept his offer of charity during a time when she desperately needed someone in whom she could confide.

The _union,_ as he had put it, however, was a topic she wished to avoid. She wondered if the doctor thought, in their hasty feelings of youth, she and her fiancé had thrown propriety to the wind in a moment of passion. She wondered if she should let him think it. But then he surprised her, his clarity on the matter astounding to her given the circumstances. Or maybe she was just naïve to the thoughts of others. It was obvious the man had already guessed otherwise of her condition.

"Am I correct in assuming the Vicomte is not the father?" the doctor asked quietly.

She stared at him a long while. After some time had passed, her gaze wandered to an ubiquitous spot on the white wallpaper above the fireplace, and she nodded.

"I see." He sighed again, eyeing her carefully. "And the father?"

"He is… _gone_." Christine could not bear to say he was dead; she could not even think it.

The doctor nodded. "Is there any chance of his return?" he asked gently, his voice full of sympathy and kindness.

She shook her head, tears welling up and threatening to overflow from her red-rimmed eyes.

The doctor looked grave. "You loved him?"

It wasn't really a question.

"Yes." Christine turned away, gazing at the gauzy curtains blowing gently in the breeze from the open window. She did not want the doctor to see her tears.

After a great pause, he said, "The Vicomte wishes to marry you. He speaks of little beyond your welfare and well-being. And while I do not know his character, he has spoken to me openly and sincerely since I have entered this house. I believe he has your best interests at heart."

She nodded. She knew this was true, but her thoughts remained distant.

"I can't tell him," she whispered almost to herself. "It would break him."

And wasn't so much broken already? How could she willfully add to that glittering ruin?

The doctor assented, inclining his head in a thoughtful gesture.

"You know," the doctor said slowly, deliberately. "He need never know. You are not so far along. If you were married posthaste, the Vicomte would never know it was not his child. Many babies are born premature."

Christine looked at him fully now, slightly shocked at what he was suggesting. And yet, hadn't her mind already thought on it? In the hours since she had been told there was a life growing inside her, a life that was blossoming even as she felt her own life wilting away, had she not considered the very same thing?

"It may be your best option, if you feel you cannot tell the Vicomte the truth. I am generally an advocate for the truth. However, when the truth hurts others, it may be best to leave well enough alone. If there is no chance of the father's return, why hurt the Vicomte unnecessarily? I speak from experience, mademoiselle," he whispered hoarsely and looked away, eyes downcast, and she wondered again at this man's past. She shuddered at his words.

"Forgive me the impertinence, but the Vicomte says that you have no family. What would you do otherwise? Where would you go? How would you live? If you marry the Vicomte, you would be secure in the knowledge that you and your child would be provided for. I'm sure this other man who loved you would want what is best for you. I do not wish to be insensitive. The alternatives for a young, unmarried woman alone with a child are…" His words trailed off, and he spread his hands in a sad gesture.

Christine knew her options were few. And Dr. Drouet was offering to assist her, to help conceal her secret and validate her decision should she choose to stay with Raoul. He would not tell Raoul the truth. He had alluded as much with his reference to her of his painful past. And no one else need ever know. It was the right thing to do, wasn't it? The only thing she could do?

But how could she do it? How could she marry Raoul under such false pretenses? How could she raise Erik's child without him? What would _he_ have wanted for her? She felt she knew the answer and didn't like it.

Christine sighed sadly and nodded in understanding.

How could she live a lie?

* * *

"You are growing stronger by the day," said Raoul as he sat by her bed, one hand grasping hers while the other rested near her hair. He leaned in closer to her. "The doctor says you should be strong enough to venture out of the house by the end of the week. Perhaps I can bring you to Mass. Would you like that?"

His eyes looked hopeful. Christine's heart lurched with dread. He was speaking of church. And with that thought came other thoughts unbidden. In that moment, she knew she would do it. She knew she would marry him, even though she knew in her heart, the realization hitting her like a dull blow to the chest, that she did not want to. This decision had been coming at her gradually over the weeks, but she had not wanted to admit it to herself.

A scant two weeks later they were married, for it had to be in haste now, and she had insisted on it, even though Raoul had said she should take time to recover from her illness. They loved each other, he said. They could wait. He would wait for as long as it would take.

But it couldn't wait now, could it? She was more than a month along. She had to be married or this farce would soon come to light. She would not be able to hide it forever. So, she had insisted, had smiled and said she wanted nothing more than to become his wife.

She did love Raoul. But it was not the same as her love for Erik. It had taken her too long to realize the truth. She loved Raoul with a girl's love for her childhood friend. It had been a juvenile crush, an adolescent stirring of first romantic love that no longer held any meaning for her, other than a warm memory. She was fond of him; he was the safe choice. But there was no passion, no soul-stirring devotion, no deep love in her heart for him. No, all of that belonged to Erik. Her heart and soul belonged to Erik! So, it was a lie, a terrible lie when she read her wedding vows, for she knew in her heart who she wanted to say those words of love and devotion to, and it was not to Raoul.

As time passed, she found it was easy to lie. For she loved stories, did she not? She had always loved the tales her father had told her, the ones the Bretons had passed along on doorsteps and at fairs, the "dark stories of the North." Only now the dark story was her own, concealed in shadow as her angel had once been concealed. And as he had once been obliged to hide the truth, so she too found herself unable or unwilling to reveal the reality of it all.

She imagined she now had an inkling of what Erik had felt over the long years alone, suspended between two worlds, torn between two sides of oneself, like a ghost destined to lead a half-life forever grasping at a life out of one's reach.

She learned early on if she was dead inside, she did not have to feel. She could go through the motions, playing a part—the role of a lifetime.

Yes, over the years, Christine had become a very good liar.


	2. Chapter 2 - The Heart is Slow to Learn

A/N: There are numerous references to Kay in this chapter, especially toward the end where I reworked one of her scenes to suit the purposes of this story. As usual, I own nothing.

* * *

 **Chapter 2 – The Heart is Slow to Learn**

In truth, Christine had only agreed to come to New York for Gustave's sake.

Since Gustave's birth, she had spent most of her time focusing on his education and upbringing. It was difficult to keep pace with his rapidly burgeoning mind. She fostered and nurtured his musical talent as best as she could, but in most every other field, she knew she was inadequate. This was not surprising, as Erik had been a master in many fields. It was only fitting that his son would be brilliant.

Gustave was her only link to music, and she made every effort to give Gustave everything she thought Erik would have wanted for the boy: expensive tutors, private lessons, whatever he needed to encourage his creative and curious mind. Teachers from Eton came to the house when he was old enough to talk to instruct him in history and the languages. Later, she brought in university professors from Oxford and Cambridge to focus on mathematics and literature. Raoul suggested they send him away to school, but Christine would not hear of parting with him at such a young age. Gustave needed his mother, and perhaps even more so, she needed him. Without Gustave, she would truly be a lost soul.

Raoul likened Gustave's musical gifts to her father's, Gustave's namesake, never realizing or suspecting otherwise, or at least never outwardly saying that he suspected anything different. Gustave was musical because Christine was musical, because her father had been musical. He explained away Gustave's interest in architecture by mentioning he'd had a cousin who was a stonemason in Rouen. When Gustave was solving mathematical equations even the professors could not solve, Raoul said his father's uncle had been an astronomer. When Gustave drew superior likenesses of birds or foliage after walks in the park, Raoul said his aunt had been a budding artist. He always had some excuse for Gustave's genius when bragging of him to friends and colleagues at dinner parties. And brag about Gustave he did, though his praise did not make him sound like he was proud of their son, in Christine's estimation. It sounded like he was selling his talents, much the same as he sold hers when he said she should sing for this charity ball or for that dinner party.

"Really, darling, the Rothschilds will be there," he would plead. Or "won't Lord and Lady Crawley be jealous of our son. He plays the violin like he was born to it! While their son screeches like a hoot owl." "Oh really, my love, you must give in!" he would insist. "If you sing and Gustave plays, think what it will do for us in the society circles. We'll be the envy of all London!"

And so, it went—so it was for their prodigal son and for Christine's own waning talent. She did not deceive herself on that score. Her voice was nothing like it had been when Erik had guided her. It had become an empty shell that people listened to at dinner parties, that they praised for a moment before going back to their cocktail drinks.

As for Gustave, he was every inch Erik's son! Raoul was not so understanding of Gustave's need to adopt stray dogs and mend the broken wings of birds he brought home from the park. His eyes would glaze over in something like disgust when Gustave spoke of magic. And while the boy's parlor tricks were mostly harmless, Raoul had punished him once for making their Ming vase disappear. It had reappeared later, to Christine's amusement, perched on a ledge in the drawing room. The thing was almost too perfect, almost ugly in its perfection, and Christine couldn't blame Gustave for moving it out of sight. Raoul loved that vase. Worth a small fortune, it didn't hold a candle to the lovely piece of pottery she and Gustave had picked up at a street vendor's stand in Piccadilly.

"Mother, look! It glistens like an angel's wings."

And so, it had. The price was the sum of a loaf of bread, but Gustave had adored it and lovingly cradled it in his arms as they had left the marketplace, after giving up his week's allowance in paying more than the vendor was asking, later giving it a place of honor in the drawing room by the piano.

" _Music is well said to be the speech of angels_ ," whispered Gustave, and Christine had stopped and looked at him.

"That is very profound of you to say," she said quietly.

"Oh, I didn't say it. Thomas Carlyle did," corrected Gustave, positioning the vase before him. After placing it near the piano with reverent hands, he had told her the vendor who had made it was blind, and Christine had wept.

* * *

Christine reflected the trip to New York would be good for Gustave, and it would be beneficial for her as well. It would do them well to escape from the whispers of scandal which hovered over her family like flies in a city that loved a good intrigue more than anything else. If they stayed in London, it would be torment. Torment in the form of pitying stares and carefully concealed comments behind closed doors but torment all the same. She could simply no longer bear it.

And Gustave had confided with such enthusiasm how he wanted to see New York.

One day, he had burst into the parlor with a look of pure glee on his face, he could barely contain himself.

"What is it, darling?" she had asked with laughing alarm. Laughing because Gustave was sliding across the floor in his stockinged feet; alarm because he almost landed against the far window, nearly slamming into the piano.

"Mother, Mother look!" he cried with delight, his hands fisted around a large rectangular book. "Look what Dr. Drouet gave to me!"

Dr. Drouet had taken up the post as the Chagny family physician after Raoul had dismissed their previous one when Christine had been ill during her pregnancy. After the nature of their relationship during her illness, the doctor of course sworn to secrecy on Gustave's paternity, Christine had insisted Dr. Drouet take up the post when Raoul had offered it. He had followed them from Paris to London and set up a small practice.

Gustave set the book in her lap in haste where she sat near the window reading over Mr. Hammerstein's last letter for the third time. Addressed to Raoul, of course, it had mentioned something she was currently puzzling over. She set the letter down thoughtfully before clasping the leather spine and turning it over.

"Oh Mother! Look, Coney Island!" he pointed to the book, opening it to show her the pictures inside. "Can we go there? Can we see it?"

It was a thin volume obviously geared at children. The pictures, some real, some illustrations, showed painted ponies and laughing children, ladies in plumed hats looking lovingly at their sons and daughters while eating ice cream and lollipops. It was very picturesque.

She smiled at Gustave. "Perhaps, darling."

She handed the book back to him. Out of one corner slipped something that looked like a postcard. It fell to the floor and was forgotten as Raoul burst through the door looking haggard and irritated, running a hand through his windswept hair.

"Gustave, why don't you go play your violin until supper?" she suggested, eyeing Raoul with concern.

Gustave glanced up, noting the worried look on her face. He set the book on the piano.

"Yes, Mother," he said obediently. He kept his head down as he passed by Raoul and did not look up even as Raoul patted his shoulder in an off-handed affectionate but dismissive kind of way.

"Yes, yes, Gustave. Run along now," he said absently.

* * *

A half hour later, Christine sat alone in the parlor. Raoul had left the room after giving her the news. They were in financial ruin. The bank would not extend their loans and their fashionable house in Mayfair would be put up for auction by summer's end with all the valuable items in it—if something wasn't done, and done quickly! She cared little for the material things: the antique furniture, the tapestries on the walls and thick Aubusson rugs, the statues and paintings collected over the years. But Gustave's prized violin, and the beautiful Bösendorfer piano? It would break her son's heart to lose them.

"Surely it can't be as bad as all that," Christine had said to Raoul as he stood defeated before her, hat in hand looking like a lost child. She felt sorry for him. After Monte Carlo, she really wasn't surprised, despite her words to the contrary. Raoul, however, looked as if he hadn't seen it coming.

"We must go to New York now," he pleaded before her. "We have no choice."

She had already told him she would go. So why was he standing there as though she had said otherwise?

Their entire life hanging in the balance over one song! It wasn't the first time, Christine mused thoughtfully. Would it be the last?

Holding Mr. Hammerstein's letter in her hand, she looked again at the line that had been puzzling her earlier that day.

"What do you know of this business partner Mr. Hammerstein refers to in his letter? Do you know who he is?" she asked.

Raoul shrugged as if he didn't care, his eyes hazy and unfocused.

"See here," she pointed to the letter and showed him the passage. Third paragraph down, the line in Mr. Hammerstein's firm hand sounded like nothing more than an off-handed remark, but it concerned Christine nonetheless.

Raoul took the letter and read aloud, " _My partner in this scheme, whose name I won't mention, as he would not wish for me to name him, has put forth enough capital to ensure our little project is completed in a timely manner before your arrival._ "

Only an American millionaire would call building an opera house "a little project." If they accepted Mr. Hammerstein's generous offer to pay their passage and left London when he suggested, the new Manhattan Opera House would open approximately two weeks after their arrival in New York.

He handed the letter back to her. "What of it?"

"Don't you find it odd that this other man wishes to remain anonymous?" she wondered. "Why would he not want us to know who he is?"

"I don't find it _odd_ , as you put it. Maybe the man likes his privacy," said Raoul. "I don't care if there are ten anonymous benefactors, as long as we get our due."

He looked at her suspiciously. He could see her wavering.

"You're not backing out?" His temper was starting to get the better of him.

"No, no, of course not," she said quietly. "I just want to be certain, if we are to do this, that it is the right decision for us. That there is not some better alternative."

"There is no other alternative!" he shouted.

She flinched, but asked, "What if this man does not live up to his end of the bargain?"

"I trust Mr. Hammerstein," said Raoul irritably. She could see he was reaching his breaking point.

"A man you've never even met?" she dared to argue.

The look on Raoul's face changed. He suddenly knelt before her, grasping at her hands. She wanted to pull away, but his grip was too tight. She shuddered, not knowing or understanding this desperate look in his eyes.

"If we don't do this…" He kissed her hand suddenly, as he used to do when they were courting, never finishing his sentence. He rose up and smiled, suddenly looking cheerful. "I will respond to Mr. Hammerstein and book our passage to New York. We will leave London as soon as the arrangements can be made."

He grabbed the letter from her fingers. Before exiting the room, he said, "This is the best thing for us. You'll see."

Later she would agree it was the right thing to do. Of course, it was! But staring after Raoul in that moment, her head was clouded in doubts.

* * *

The following day, Christine noticed the edge of something flat and pointed peeking out from beneath the piano. She pulled it up and looked at it, remembering Gustave's excitement over the book the previous day.

It was a picture postcard from Coney Island. There was a boy in a white pant-suit and hat and a man, presumably the boy's father, approaching a ticket seller's booth to the right of an ornate theater entrance. The photo was black and white, but she could imagine the gold gilt-trimming on the front of the lovely theater, intricate and well-carved, with its lounging cherubs and painted scenes of... what was it? Gods, angels? She couldn't tell. The picture was too grainy to see the details.

She paused. There was something familiar about the picture. This theater reminded her of another she had once frequented, and she could only see a small portion of the entrance. The familiarity of the colonnades and lamp-like light fixtures nearly made her drop the postcard. She had seen this architecture in Paris and more recently in Monte Carlo at the Salle Garnier.

To the left of the theater entrance was a small crowd: men in bowler hats with walking canes, their backs to the camera, surveying the scene before them; ladies with parasols and flowers over their arms; a large tent advertising cigars behind it; a sign post for the local beach; a great pavilion rising behind, the top of its spires carved in what looked to be middle eastern designs. And there, nearly out of shot of the camera, was a man in a flowing, black cloak!

Christine bent closer to the postcard, thinking her eyes must be deceiving her. Yet there he was! A mysterious figure in elegant evening dress and fedora hat. His back was to her, but she recognized that tall, distinguished body caught mid-stride.

Impossible! She was seeing things!

The other men were dressed in day suits; it was obviously morning or afternoon. There was also an older woman with white braids piled under a rather ridiculous hat, her hand touching the brim as if she were afraid she would lose it in a gust of wind. Or perhaps she was nodding in greeting to the man; she was smiling warmly at him as he was striding by. Perhaps the man was a local magician, that was all. Coney Island was full of such characters, or so she had read. She was seeing what she wanted to see!

She turned the postcard over. It simply read, "Coney Island. Concert Hall."

* * *

Later, Christine had examined the card with a magnifying glass. Still dissatisfied, she opened the book about Coney Island. Not seeing what she was looking for—what _was_ she looking for?—she mentioned the card to Gustave.

"Oh, did I miss one?" he asked, glancing at it in surprise as she handed it to him. She did not mention the figure in black.

"One? Are there more?" she questioned him.

Gustave disappeared upstairs and then returned carrying three more cards. The first one showed a crowded beach from afar, with what must be thousands of people in the photograph. It looked like the whole population of New York was gathered on that beach! The second was of carousel horses, and reminded her of the pictures in the book, with smiling children and ladies holding candy apples. The third was of a thrill ride called "Shooting-the-Chute." It looked rather scary to her, but the adults riding down it were laughing. She wondered if it was safe. It didn't look it! Wouldn't those wheeled carts go shooting right off the tracks? Maybe that was the point.

"They were marking pages in the book, but I took them out. I didn't know I missed one," said Gustave.

He took the magnifying glass from her and pointed.

"See there at the bottom. There is a watermark in the right-hand corner."

And so, there was. She had completely missed it!

 _Card four of six._

She looked at the other cards.

 _Number one. Number three. Number five._

"Where are two and six?" she asked.

Gustave shrugged.

"That's all there was," he said. "Maybe you can ask Dr. Drouet?"

"Do you mind if I borrow them?" she asked him.

He shrugged again, eyeing her curiously.

"I promise I'll return them to you," she assured him.

After Gustave retreated to the library, his tutor promptly arriving for his afternoon geometry lesson, Christine decided there was a telephone call she needed to make. And the sooner she made it, the sooner she could put her troubled mind at ease!

* * *

"Yes, I realize you only meant for the book to be a distraction."

Pause.

"No, I'm not angry you gave it to him."

A longer pause.

Christine waited with bated breath for the doctor's voice on the other end of the telephone line.

"What is this really about Christine?"

Ah, there it was! Dr. Drouet knew her so well.

"How long will you be in your office today?" she asked, hanging up after the doctor consented to seeing her. She glanced at the large ornate grandfather clock in the drawing room. It was mid-week, so supper would be later, as Raoul often visited his gentlemen's club on Wednesdays. If she hurried, she would make it back before Raoul even realized she was missing.

* * *

"This postcard says it is part of a set. My son has the four you gave to him from the book."

She laid them out on the table before the doctor: the crowded beach, the carousel horses, the great shooting chute ride, and the concert hall. She wanted to see the other two postcards in the set. She didn't know why, but she was desperate for them. Whatever was the matter with her, she was not willing to let this intuitive feeling go just yet.

She raised her hands to her flushed cheeks, blaming the heat and color on her exertion in walking there to the doctor who eyed her thoughtfully. She had decided not to take the carriage. The driver always reported back to Raoul. And while visiting Dr. Drouet was not entirely out of the norm, for some reason, her instincts told her to conceal this little visit to the doctor from him.

"I don't have them. Whatever I had, I gave to the boy yesterday afternoon. I thought it would amuse him," said the doctor. He crossed his arms. She wished he would stop looking at her like that!

He had taken Gustave to the park yesterday, surprising him with the gift. He often took Gustave out on Tuesday afternoons. Sometimes they had lessons on anatomy, or discussions on the latest surgical procedures. Christine avoided being present on those occasions. Other days, the two simply went for walks. The doctor had been a dear friend to both Gustave and Christine over the ten years she had known him.

Now the doctor was frowning at her.

"Why do you want them?" He couldn't seem to understand her interest in the cards or the place. "Do you not want Gustave to have them?"

"Oh no! That's not it at all," she exclaimed. "I… I can't explain. It's... personal."

He eyed her warily.

She paused. After a moment, she said, "Please, where did you get them? Do you know who might have the others?"

Oddly enough, Dr. Drouet was reluctant to answer her. But eventually he gave in, as she knew he would.

Ten minutes later, she left the doctor's office with an address in her hand.

* * *

The musty old bookshop on Piccadilly, not far from the marketplace where Gustave had bought the shiny white "angel" vase that now graced their parlor, seemed misplaced, as if it had landed in this location purely by accident. The moss green exterior and curved bay windows were positively Dickensian.

"Yes, miss," said the store clerk. She didn't correct him that she was in fact a _missus_. She had forgotten her white gloves, which she normally wore in public. Without them, the man could clearly see there was no wedding ring on her left hand. It was too much of a bother to explain the truth to him.

She had a diamond wedding band, but she rarely wore it. After Gustave's birth, her fingers had swelled, and her original ring had to be cut from her finger. Raoul had bought a replacement ring, but it never fit right, and she had never liked it. Her first ring had been somewhat plain, from the days when their relationship had been young and simple. The new ring was jeweled and gaudy, a symbol of their wealth and status. She only wore it when Raoul had an inkling to show it off.

"We have the postcards," continued the pinched little man. He adjusted his spectacles as if to get a better look at her. "They are very popular. The owner went to New York himself to procure them. He often travels to find rare items for the shop. He likes to visit America. Finds it oddly modern. The only reason to visit America is to see Coney Island, or so they say."

He disappeared into the back of the store. A little later he emerged with a perforated set, the cards held together by small seams, and the little wiry man unraveled them like a magician flicking a deck of cards.

There they were: the crowded beach, the carousel horses, the great shooting chute ride, and the concert hall.

The fifth card was a group of women wading out into the sea in swimming costumes that clung to their figures, leaving little to the imagination. Christine blushed at the image.

What was she doing? Surely, this was ridiculous! This man must wonder why she wanted them. For a moment, she had the feeling that what she was doing was scandalous, despite his proclamation that the cards were popular with patrons. He may only be saying that to profit the shop.

That odd feeling subsided when her eyes alighted on the last postcard, and she gasped. It was beautiful, magical! It was a night scene of a few buildings from afar, a tower and hotel among them, as darkness fell over them. The buildings were lit up against the night sky in a most spectacular fashion. She had never seen anything like it. It was as though the buildings were beckoning seductively for visitors to come and enjoy the evening's activities before true night descended. It was an intoxicating sight! And it was there, staring at that last postcard that she finally understood the draw and pull of that island. It made her want to see it for herself.

She turned the postcard over with shaking fingers.

"Mister Y's Phantasma. Featuring one million electric lights!"

What a curious play on the English word of "mystery," she thought absently before her thoughts descended to another, darker place. _Phantasma?_ It was too close to… no, she wouldn't think it!

"Miss, you look as though you have seen a ghost!" said the store clerk, and for a moment she felt that she had.

As she continued to stare wide-eyed at the card, the clerk said, "We often sell these as a set with a children's book over there. The publisher in New York is a friend of the owner."

"No, thank you," she waved her hand to stop him. "Just the cards, please."

She paid the clerk, left the shop, and hailed a cab to take her home.

* * *

After that, she saw Erik everywhere! Not that she hadn't thought of him every day in the last ten years. How could she not? With his son always a reminder, standing before her. But oh—she had never really felt his presence quite like this before! As if he were alive again, as if the music which had lain dormant for ten years suddenly started playing in her veins!

It happened in innocuous ways. She sensed him one day when an old woman on the street had handed her a rose. The flower vendors often did this to catch unsuspecting passersby unawares. She nearly kept walking with the red bloom in her hand when she whirled around to give the beautiful bud back to the woman.

"A white, too, I think," the hag wheezed, pulling out a stunning white rose from behind her back. "You like both I think, no? To save the petals?"

How could the woman know such a thing? She likely said this to all her customers. Christine made to pay her, but the old woman waved her hand in protest.

"My treat, I think," she whispered mysteriously.

"Mother, where did you get those? They're lovely!" said Gustave as he turned away from the store window he had been perusing. Christine whirled around to gesture at the old woman, but she had disappeared.

"I… she…" Christine was startled, but then just shrugged and smiled, her cheeks nearly darkening to the hue of the red bloom.

Gustave laughed merrily. "Let's get them home. We can put them in my vase."

The roses had bloomed until the day before they left for New York near the piano where Gustave had set them. Christine had indeed saved the petals and when she opened her dresser drawer while she was packing, their lingering scent washed over her. On a whim she took two petals, one red and one white, and pressed them into her favorite leather-bound book of short stories that she often read to Gustave. She packed the book in a corner of her trunk next to the thinly wrapped parchment paper containing the Coney Island postcards and shut the lid tightly.

* * *

The roses were not the only reminder of Erik in the days leading up to their leaving London.

That damned Siamese cat!

She had followed it around a corner into an alley one day when she and Gustave were returning from an outing. It had been raining, and they were in a rush to get home.

"Mother?" inquired Gustave.

"Ayesha?" she had called out. Of course, that was ridiculous! Ayesha had died years ago! She had been there when Erik had buried her himself on the banks of the underground lake. She had never seen him so full of reverence and sorrow over another living creature. He had sung a Requiem Mass. She could still hear his grieving voice echoing off the lake.

"That's a pretty name," said Gustave. He released her hand, easily appeasing and cornering the little creature with his skillful hands. He caught her up, holding her to his nose so they were face to face. She squirmed only slightly then snuggled into his embrace. Christine imagined if she had tried the same thing, she would be nursing several scratches.

"Can we keep her?" asked Gustave hopefully.

"Yes, dear," she had murmured. "Of course, anything you wish."

She had followed Gustave out of the alley as he had cradled the little yellow cat in his arms.

"Absolutely not!" Raoul had protested at home. "How many more strays need we take in? This house is already a damned zoo!"

In the end, Gustave had won out. He always did.

* * *

Christine encountered Erik one more time at the National Gallery.

She had kept up an illusion of normalcy for Gustave's sake in the days leading up to their departure from London. So, she and Gustave did the things they always did when he wasn't at his lessons; and on the third Saturday of every month, they visited the National Gallery.

They had been standing in front of John Everett Millais's oil painting of _Ophelia,_ not for the first time as Gustave was fond of the Pre-Raphaelites, depicting Hamlet's lost love singing before drowning in a river. Christine had examined the portrait many times, feeling an odd kinship with the woman in the picture. The beauty of the painting was profound: the young girl floating in a garland of poppies, death almost upon her. Here was a woman who had anticipated a life of happiness only to find that her destiny was death. And the painting captured her suspended, always trapped in that moment in between. Christine imagined she understood how the girl felt.

As they wandered through the gallery, they came upon an exhibit of French painters. She and Gustave stopped in front of a painting of the _Grand Escalier_ of the Paris Opera House painted by Louis Béroud, which was on loan from the Carnavalet Museum in Paris. The artist had captured the building rather well.

"Why are we stopping?" Raoul motioned as if to move them along. He had accompanied them on this occasion. He rarely came to the museum with them; he usually felt it was a waste of time. But that day, he had postponed an outing with a colleague to meet them there around midday. Later, she learned that Lady Caroline Tate had sponsored the Paris exhibit, and Raoul had been eager for her husband's approval in a business venture. He was making a last-ditch effort to try to salvage their financial situation before they left the country, much good that it did him. Lady Caroline was not fond of Raoul.

"He looks, but he doesn't _see_ ," she had told Christine once at a gallery opening, gesturing at the beautiful paintings on the walls. Her family members were long patrons of the arts; her father-in-law had donated many paintings to the National Gallery.

She hadn't thought much on it at the time, but now she saw that Lady Caroline was right. She couldn't remember the last time Raoul had accompanied them to the National Gallery for the art. Perhaps there had been a time in his youth when he would have appreciated the beauty contained within the walls of that gallery, but things like art and music and beauty no longer held any meaning for him, outside of monetary gain. She wondered when that change had taken place. Beyond simply growing up, when had he changed from that eager youth to such a cold, hypocritical man? Had it been gradual or all at once? She couldn't recall. She only knew that his offensive manner struck her to the core that day. It made her want to take Gustave by the hand and leave.

Despite Raoul's protests, Gustave moved closer to the Opera House painting and then to three framed photographs nearby: one was of the exterior of the building, its grand baroque façade as majestic and impressive as Christine remembered; the other two were of the construction of the Opera with a brief description beside them recounting the history of the building. There were a few men in the foreground of one of the photos. Christine leaned in to get a better view, but their faces were blurry, and they looked tiny next to the edifice rising behind them.

Ridiculous to look for Erik in the photos! She knew he had been a contractor and involved in the construction, had built much of the building himself, particularly below ground. Why would he be standing proud with these men in broad daylight? He never would have allowed himself to be photographed. And yet she searched for him all the same, hoping for some glimpse, some sign of him. She could imagine him there just outside of the shot or somewhere hidden, away from the prying eyes of the photographer. Again, like the Coney Island postcard, she was seeing what she wanted to see.

"What an amazing architectural feat!" exclaimed Gustave. As usual, he didn't sound like a typical ten-year-old. "Look at the arches, the marbled columns, the details in the stonework! Who designed such a building? Do you think he's still around to marvel at his work?"

"Erik has been dead for ten years!" said Raoul coldly.

Christine froze as though he had slapped her. He gave her an odd glance, almost like he regretted his words but couldn't help himself in saying them, and then he wandered off into the next display room.

Had he deliberately wanted to hurt her? Or did he suspect, as she had wondered from time to time, if Gustave was really his son? There had been moments over the years when she thought he must have known, but her fears were always allayed, quieted by a reassurance that she had kept her secret well hidden from him. Surely, she was mistaken! Surely, he had not meant what he had said to sound so harsh and unforgiving.

She eyed her son, studying him up and down. Gustave had her blue eyes, but his hair was dark, darker than hers, almost black. Raoul was fair and blond-haired with sun-bronzed skin. Gustave was tall for his age, and thin, though not overly so, with long elegant hands like his father's. Raoul was shorter and stouter than Erik had been, his build solid and athletic. In short, Gustave looked nothing like Raoul and resembled Christine little except for the blue of his eyes and the color of his complexion. He was pale like her but by no means ghostly like a specter. Still, she imagined Gustave looked much the way Erik would have looked had he been born without his deformities. She wondered if Raoul ever thought this too.

"Erik?" questioned Gustave. "Who is Erik? Did you know him?"

"Umm… yes, darling," she stumbled over her words. "I met him when I sang at the Opera as a young soprano in the chorus."

Gustave knew something of her professional background. He was aware that she had begun her career in Paris.

"Is this the same Erik who taught you to sing? Your maestro?" he asked.

Oh, Gustave remembered everything! It had been years since she had told him the story of her mentor from the Opera, giving him only the tiniest details to quench his inquisitive mind. Of course, she'd had a music teacher. She certainly couldn't sing the way she did without one. She didn't remember speaking Erik's name on that occasion. It must have slipped out when she had not realized it. And surely, how much would a four-year-old remember six years later?

"Yes," she said softly.

"So, he was not only a musician, but an architect," replied Gustave, turning back to the photos.

"Erik was a master in many fields: music, architecture, magic—"

"Magic?" cried Gustave with delight. "Oh, I would have liked to have known him!"

 _Yes,_ she thought sadly, turning away from the display. _I rather imagine you would._

Christine waited until they were safe at home, confined to her bedroom with the curtains drawn before she allowed her tears to flow.


	3. Chapter 3 - The Point of No Return

A/N: I tried to go light on the lyrics in this chapter, only including them where I felt it was necessary. They are indicated in _italics_. I own nothing, of course.

* * *

 **Chapter 3 – The Point of No Return**

" _Father never plays with me,"_ said Gustave, clutching the music box forlornly, head down. _"Doesn't he love me?"_

"Oh, darling!" Christine moved around the divan in the hotel suite on Coney Island, her lace skirts swishing around her, brought back from her thoughts at her son's despair.

Raoul had just left the room to speak with Mr. Hammerstein at the hotel bar. She had not been invited. Though she had not admitted it aloud, she felt slighted. If they were discussing her career, why should she not be present for it? Why did Raoul always feel like he had to make her decisions for her? Did he think she was incapable of handling her affairs herself? If not for Gustave, she might have gone after him and insisted on attending the meeting with him. As it was, she now had more important matters to attend to; she had to deal with her heartbroken son.

Christine sat next to Gustave, placing her arm around his shoulders comfortingly. He leaned into her listlessly, his expression one of lingering disappointment. As usual, she was forced to do damage control from Raoul's complete lack of sensitivity.

Gustave had confessed earlier he had hoped they would all spend time together in New York. He had thought he and Raoul would have plenty of time to explore, as father and son, while she was rehearsing. And when she was not rehearsing, they could all have fun together as a family. However, Raoul had shown disinterest when Gustave had suggested it. He would not even play with Gustave in their hotel suite!

Raoul was treading a line with Gustave, and soon he would be past a point of no return. Surely, the meeting with Mr. Hammerstein could have waited until morning. It was rather late in the evening for a business meeting. How much longer would Gustave continue to forgive him for his callousness? And how was she to explain to Gustave that Raoul loved him when Christine was not sure of it herself? Did he even love _her_ anymore? These were questions she had refused to ask herself. Was he even capable of loving them anymore? Once she would never have doubted him. When had her husband become such a stranger to her?

Gustave could understand facts and figures better than anyone she knew but trying to explain such an abstract concept as love to a ten-year-old, even with his advanced intelligence, would not be an easy task. All he saw was that his _father_ was generally indifferent to him. Raoul's actions could not compute in his astute brain to a loving father. It was a wonder he had not questioned it before now. If he had, he had never done so aloud.

"Love is a very complicated and curious thing," she started tentatively. Oh, wasn't that the truth!

And so, she tried to explain the idea of love to her son.

Erik had taught her much about love, though she had not realized it at the time. Erik had disguised his love for her, first as her Angel of Music and again as her maestro, when she had come to know him as a man and not some heavenly being. She had not recognized the depth of his feelings for her until much later in their relationship. She had looked at him as her tutor, her mentor, an authority figure, if not strictly a father figure. He was older, wiser certainly, no nonsense when it came to her voice and her singing lessons—and yet, his devotion to her had been unswerving; his faith in her talent unwavering. She had missed so many signs in only listening to what her logical mind was telling her. She had never really listened to her heart until it was too late. She had learned her lessons the hard way.

She tried to explain this idea of love to Gustave, leaving Erik out of it, of course. The heart understands what the mind cannot comprehend. The mind can deceive; the heart sees the truth. He must believe what his heart is telling him. He must trust his heart to show him the way.

" _Love is not always beautiful,"_ she admitted.

No, love could be very, very ugly—and scary and confusing and blind!

" _Fear can turn to love_ ," Erik had once told her. She had not believed him then. " _You'll learn to see to find the man behind the monster…_ "

When he had spoken of _seeing_ , she had thought he had meant her eyes would eventually see him differently. But he had not been speaking of her eyes at all. It was her heart that would accept his face, her heart that would learn to love him for himself. In loving him, his ugliness would turn to beauty. But she had let fear cloud her mind and her heart; though it had been less fear of him, than fear of her feelings for him. It had taken her a long time to understand how afraid she was of her love for him.

" _Learn from someone who knows,"_ she told Gustave sincerely. She ran her fingers through his dark hair soothingly as he rested against her. _"Love you misunderstand is love that you'll regret…"_

She trailed off, lost in her memories of Erik, as she held his son in her arms.

As she said those words, she thought she heard a sound, a light tapping as though something, or someone, was softly beating against glass. She turned her head toward the sound, her long brown curls falling over her shoulder. She listened quietly but heard nothing more. The fluttering sound had subsided, and it was some time before Gustave prompted her, "Mother?"

He had sensed she was not speaking of him and Raoul anymore.

" _Look with your heart and not with your eyes_. That is what you're telling me? The heart knows better?" he questioned her tenuously.

She smiled and nodded at him. "Yes, the heart sees things clearly. It is too wise to be fooled. And though you may not believe it now, the mind is not wiser than the heart."

She embraced her son, holding him tightly. She loved him for himself, as the brilliant little boy that he was, but more so for his heart and compassion. She thought her son would not make the same mistakes that she had made. He was too much like his father in that respect; no matter Erik's actions, his heart had been in the right place. The same could not be said of Raoul or herself. She had deceived herself most in this matter.

She remembered something her father had once told her. He had said that pride could hinder a situation, rendering it impossible; experience might argue it was unwise; reason would counter it was fruitless; but the heart—the heart would say to hope, to endure, and to try.

Erik had hoped. His love for her had endured, even beyond his death, in Gustave. And he had tried—oh, how he had tried to love her! Above all else, he'd had a beautiful heart. A beautiful heart and a beautiful soul were more important than a beautiful body or even a beautiful mind. That was a lesson she wanted to pass on to her son.

The clock on the mantle chimed the hour, and she glanced at it quickly.

"All right, darling," she said, releasing Gustave from her embrace. "Time for bed."

She led him from the ornate sitting room into his bedroom, which was situated near hers. The suite was almost hexagonal in shape, with her room and Gustave's on one side and Raoul's on the other. This suited Christine just fine as she and Raoul had not shared a bedroom in years.

Gustave's room was really something out of a child's fantasy or storybook. One step into the room, and it was like entering an enchanted land. Everything was full of color and light, from the intricate wallpaper to the domed ceiling encrusted with stars. It had plenty of nooks and crannies for Gustave to hide away and dream in. There were rows and rows of books on multi-colored wooden bookshelves. The bay window, overlooking the lights and the sea beyond, boasted a large cushioned seat, complete with fluffy, round pillows, perfect for resting upon after selecting a title from the vast array of volumes contained on the shelves nearby.

While Gustave prepared for bed, Christine examined the books more carefully. She had glanced at them when they had first arrived and had noticed a wide variety of subjects, from history and mathematics to children's fairy tales, ghost stories, and adventure stories about dragons and pirates. Most of the copies were beautiful leather-bound first editions. Even their library at home did not boast the quality of books contained on those few little shelves. Some of them were foreign; others were large picture books the size of a small table. If Gustave wasn't so eager to explore the island, she might have a hard time pulling him away from them.

To the right of the bookshelves and window sat a small mahogany desk and a finely carved matching chair. On the far wall were more shelves full of brightly colored toys: automatons, clockwork animals, spinning tops, puzzles, a stuffed teddy bear nearly as tall as Gustave, an electric train on a circular track, and a box of wax crayons next to a large stack of fine, thick paper.

Smiling, Christine wondered if every room in the hotel was so fanciful. It seemed as if a child himself had designed this room specifically to bolster his own imagination.

When Gustave climbed under the thick covers of his fine, four-poster bed, Christine moved over to shut the drapes, but Gustave's pleading voice stopped her, "No, Mother. Please leave them open. I want to see the lights."

She turned her eyes to him with concern, dropping her hand from the gauzy fabric of the sky-colored curtains. Gustave had a strange love/hate relationship with the dark. Awake, the darkness fascinated him, as if he wanted to unravel all its mysteries and face whatever untamed things lurked in the night. But asleep, Gustave was prone to nightmares, and his fear of the dark was a near tangible thing. He often asked to sleep with a bright light blazing, as though the light would chase away the shadows from his mind.

She crossed the room, her high-heeled shoes sinking into the plush carpet and moved to sit on the edge of the bed. The downy blue fabric of the comforter was as soft and weightless as a cloud.

"It's all right, Gustave," she assured him gently. "Nothing and no one will harm you here. I promise you."

He gave her a small smile as though he wanted to believe her but could not quite bring himself to do so. His doubts, like the shadows, were looming large tonight; even her heartening words of earlier had not completely swept them away.

"Will you sing for me?" he asked lightly, his blue eyes full of hope.

"Yes, of course," she told him sweetly. She always sang for him when he asked her.

She picked a Swedish lullaby her father used to play on his violin that spoke of calm seas and moonbeams. She let the melody drift and settle over her son like a warm, comforting embrace.

"Sweet dreams," she whispered after the second verse, kissing his forehead as his eyelids closed. His hands were fisted around the blankets and she loosened them, tucking them underneath and pulling the covers high over his shoulders to his chin.

Gustave was so like Erik, it scared her sometimes. But he was also all she had left of her angel, and she would cling to his noble heart for as long as she could; for wasn't Gustave himself living proof of what miraculous things could happen when one looked with the heart? Her son's well-being was the most important thing in the world to her, and nothing could ever or would ever change that fact. She would guide and protect him as Erik had once guided and protected her. And she solemnly vowed she would continue to do so for as long as she lived.

* * *

The music box was playing by itself! As soon as she put Gustave to bed and returned to the hotel sitting room, there it was, lit up like a red and gold beacon where Gustave had left it on the cushioned divan near the piano. It was playing a familiar tune, a tune she would know anywhere!

How could that be! It was impossible! The only place she heard those glorious notes from _Don Juan Triumphant_ was in her dreams now. She had to be imagining it! Her mind was too much in the past this evening. She had thought she recognized the tune earlier as well, but no—when Gustave had first opened the box and turned the brass hand crank, it had played a common tune, one heard at carnivals and fairs, a tinkling melody reminiscent of merry-go-rounds. It had certainly not played this dark melody, the one she was surely dreaming it was playing now.

What an odd thing it was, red and gold and lit from within. The little clown-like figure, a court jester perhaps, was moving his arms, slowly beating a drum in its lap. The mocking figure sat atop the globe-like cut-crystal glass, perched with legs crossed and a wicked smile on his face. His black hair, pointed on the ends, matched the tips of his hat and tailcoat. The domino-like outfit, checkered in red and white, reminded her of the masquerade costumes she had seen long ago at the Opera House, in another time and what felt like another life. She nearly dropped the thing! Its base was tall, and cone-shaped, the red and gold of a circus tent. She had the strangest urge to throw it and run! Then, as she set it atop the piano, she nearly did drop it. It teetered for a moment, almost overturning despite its sturdy size and mechanically heavy weight.

A sudden movement caught her attention near the windows and without warning, the doors of the balcony burst open with dramatic gusto. She had stood by those windows not an hour ago, staring blindly out at the lights of the island, wistfully wishing she was somewhere else as the stars rose in the night sky. Now those mirror-like windows and handsomely curved doors had blown wide open.

 _ **He**_ always did know how to make an entrance!

But it couldn't be! Surely, he wasn't real! He wasn't moving. She was clearly going crazy, the ghosts of her past rising before her eyes, diamonds bursting from the sky behind him like fireworks. It was clearly a hallucination brought on by the melancholy tune of the music box, or the tune she had imagined it played.

For a moment, she couldn't move. She simply gasped, her upper body leaning backward in sheer surprise, her eyes riveted to the dark figure before her. He was just as she remembered him—all mystery and majesty in black, the white of his mask gleaming, the look in his golden eyes seductive.

Oh, how she had missed him!

She ran forward, and his long arms opened in a fluid gesture, welcoming her, inviting her… Ghost or no, the overwhelming urge to fly into his arms overcame her. His eyes softened, and his lips turned up in the smallest of smiles. She imagined, specter that he was, that she would walk right through him like a dream, that he would disappear like clouds of smoke, his form materializing into mist before her.

But no! She hit solid chest. Her arms wrapped around him. She could feel him, hear his heartbeat, as his arms started to enclose her. For a moment, it was heaven! Surely, she was in heaven, in the arms of her angel, at last!

And then, like awakening from a deep sleep, she came out of her dazed, dream-like state, eyes widening and lips parting in disbelief. Dead men did not breathe! Dead men did not embrace! Or smell like sandalwood and candle-smoke and spices! Their arms were not warm and responsive! She gasped in shock and pulled away. He caught her arm, gripping her wrist gently, his eyes full of surprise and longing and love.

Her corset felt too tight; she couldn't breathe. Her knees gave out. She could feel herself slipping, losing consciousness. She was briefly aware of him catching her and swooping her into his arms before she fell.

* * *

When she woke on the black silk damask-covered divan, startled as his knuckles lightly grazed her cheek, she flinched away as if a demon had touched her, and her eyes alighted on him like daggers. Her conflicting emotions were overwhelming her. Love, happiness, relief, despair, anger, longing—all flooded her senses at once in a cacophony of feelings she had not felt in a very long time. She _was_ waking from a dream, a horrible dream that had lasted ten long years!

Of all the emotions to hurl at him as his eyes looked at her in concern, anger won out. She couldn't help herself! Later she regretted this, but it was easier to be angry at him than anything else. Everything else was too complicated to put into words.

Oh God! He had lied to her! Lied to them all! He was alive! And as happy as she was that he was alive—her heart had leapt in joy at seeing him again—only one thought now consumed her.

 _He had left her!_

Disbelief warred with her anger. It couldn't be true! All the empty promises, the lies—just words, empty words. He must think her a fool!

She leapt from the divan, her lace skirts spinning wildly around her as she backed away from him, her faith in everything she had known, or thought she had known, shattered.

He rose from where he had been kneeling next to the divan and moved to follow her, his long black coat swirling gracefully around his legs, his movements every bit as beautiful—marked and measured with elegance—as she remembered them to be. He was immaculately dressed in an embroidered coat and vest. His black satin cravat gleamed as dark as his hair, which was slicked back with not a strand out of place. The white mask was as shiny and bright as his starched dress shirt underneath the long coat. He looked like a dark prince, a God among men, in his perfect attire. It made her feel weak in the knees again despite her anger.

He stopped abruptly when he saw her expression. She knew the finality of betrayal was evident in her eyes. She was not going to give him a chance to explain. Whatever he meant to say, he did not say it, the words dying on his lips as they turned into a grim, straight line.

He had chosen to end their story with his death, those lines from _L'Epoque_ swimming before her eyes on that printed page, stark and bold against the hazy gray background. _"Erik is dead!"_ it had read. The words had screamed at her from the page, wounding her as though someone had thrust a heavy knife into her chest, plunging it into her heart.

And now, here he stood in all his glorious grandeur! Erik clearly was _not_ dead!

It was unforgivable! Her hands were shaking at her sides, forming fists in her cream-colored skirts before going limp again. And he was muttering something about pain, coming at her again and reaching for her hands. She swatted them away, those long elegant fingers, bone-white and beautiful, as if they were bats come to land on her flesh and consume her with their mighty wings.

"My Christine," he sobbed.

Oh, the raw agony in his voice! That beautiful voice that defied belief! The voice of some divine deity she thought she would never again hear in her life. Her heart stumbled at its cry, clenching in anguish. It nearly undid her! To hear him speak her name again!

" _Your_ Christine?" she spat, surprising herself at how indignant she sounded. How dare he call her _his_ Christine! How dare he!

She had only truly been _his_ that one brief night long ago, hadn't she? She said as much to him. His expression was pained. It felt like forever ago. And yet—that night! Oh, why did she even have to bring it up, after two minutes in his presence? Could she think of nothing else to say? She glanced at him warily as she scrambled across the room, hitting the side of the piano with a dull thud and leaning over it to catch her breath.

She didn't know him anymore, did she? It had been ten years. Ten years! But oh, that look he was giving her! He was remembering that night; he was speaking of it! And—oh, she was remembering it too. _That night!_


	4. Chapter 4 - Once There was a Night

A/N: The scene in Christine's apartment is a rewrite of a Kay scene. I own nothing!

* * *

 **Chapter 4 – Once There was a Night**

Three weeks had passed since Christine had left Erik in the bowels of the Opera House, alone and broken.

She had chosen _him_ , kissed _him_ , wanted _him_ —and still he had sent her away, despite the cost to himself. He had given her his blessing to marry Raoul and all but pushed them out of the little house on the lake.

" _Just take her and go!"_ he had commanded to Raoul as she had stood there unmoving. _"Go! Before it's too late!"_

The mob was descending, their distant angry voices chanting, drawing nearer with every breath, and still she would not move. They wanted the Phantom's blood! They wanted revenge for everything he had done to them.

But Christine? All she wanted was to stay with him!

Raoul had tugged on her arm, "We have to go!"

"No, no!" she had protested. She tried to break away from him, but he held firm.

" _Go now and leave me!"_ came that deafening roar from Erik! She covered her ears, shaking her head, still not comprehending.

She had kissed Erik! _Twice!_ The first had been a kiss of compassion, to show him he was not alone. But the second— _oh, the second kiss!_ She realized in that moment how much she truly loved this man—this masked, mysterious, tormented man who loved her more than anyone had ever or would ever love her. Did that kiss not prove her love for him in return? She wanted to stay with him, as that revelation had descended upon her like wildfire after their lips had parted. Why was Erik sending her away? She was ready to be with him now. She was finally ready! She had let go of her girlish shackles, thrusting them off like heavy chains which had weighed her down for far too long.

"We have to go!" Raoul repeated with more urgency.

"Wait—please, just wait!" she had pleaded, pulling her arm from his grasp. " _Please!_ "

She turned away from Raoul and ran back to Erik.

How could she say goodbye to him? Surely this wasn't the end!

She stopped short when she saw him. He was kneeling by the monkey music box, singing softly beside it. He was crying, the tears running down his ruined face as his words broke on a sob.

" _Hide your face so the world will never find you."_

Such sorrow in his voice! It tore her heart in two.

Noticing her there, he stood and looked at her with kind, sympathetic eyes. His gaze was a mirror of her own, reflecting her feelings back at her.

"Christine, I _love_ you."

Oh God! She knew as she stood there that she was as broken as he was, her soul shattered into tiny pieces never to be put right again. How could she do this? He was willing her to have the strength to go, to simply walk away from him—yet, how could she do it? How could she live with herself if she did?

She looked down at her left hand at the ring, _his_ ring. The black onyx caught the light from the dozens of candles in the room, reflecting fire. She hesitated and then slipped his ring from her finger. Surely, he should have something to remember her by! She wasn't giving it back to him because she didn't want it. She loved him! She realized that now. That kiss had told her everything! But if she must go, then she would leave a piece of herself with him. She was giving the ring back to him as a promise. A promise that in her heart, she would never leave him. Her actions and her thoughts seemed contradictory, but it was the right thing to do, wasn't it? Would he see the truth in her eyes? She could not bring her lips to form the words.

Tears streaming down her face, a plea in her eyes, she took his hand and bent over it, kissing it and holding it to her, never wanting to let go. Her tears fell on his skin, and she had to suppress her own sob as she heard the surprised catch in his breath.

She was surely not worthy of him if he was staying here alone to die! He had to escape! He must! But he was in no hurry to do so.

She stared at him in desperation, her lower lip trembling. He saw, tilting his head to the side, half-smiling at her. He nodded in understanding. His eyes were telling her he knew her thoughts. They were giving her permission to go. He was trying to tell her it was going to be all right. But how could that be?

She retreated a few steps, hesitated, looked back. Her feet felt like leaden weights, unwilling to move with the rest of her body, her heart held still in place. How could she leave him? He was her love! He was her life now! Her thoughts drifted as she stood still...

" _Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime… Share each day with me, each night, each morning…"_

In her mind, those words were for Erik; they belonged to him now, just as she did. She closed her eyes. The tears fell in steady streams down her cheeks, sliding and splashing against the white of her wedding gown, a garment she would never wear again. Its beauty would be lost, wasted, like so many other things, never to be regained; the sadness was overwhelming. If she stayed as she was, with her eyes shut tight, she imagined she might fade away like a dying note of music, and then it would be over. She didn't want it to be over…

When she finally opened her eyes, for she knew she must—she must find the courage, somehow, some way—Raoul stood before her. He held out his hand to her—dear, sweet Raoul—and she took it, his warm fingers enclosing hers in the black of the night. She did not look back again.

* * *

Christine said little to Raoul as the days passed, allowing him to plan for their wedding. She expressed neither happiness nor enthusiasm. She did not join in the planning, but simply let him make all the arrangements. She knew she should be anticipating her impending nuptials, but instead she only felt empty. A calm serenity had fallen over her outward countenance, but inwardly, there was only distress and fear and doubt. She felt like a shattered vase that someone had hastily tried to mend and had done a poor job of it. One wrong move, and she would fall to pieces again.

Raoul found her huddled by the fire in her little apartment one day, staring blindly at the flickering flames in the hearth.

"It's time," he said. "We shall leave Paris on the morrow. I have the train tickets. Everything is done."

Raoul wanted to be married in the little church at Perros-Guirec, the seaside village where they had been so happy in their youth. From there, he said, they could travel anywhere on their honeymoon. The choice was hers.

So, it was done! The decision was made, taken out of her hands. Wasn't that what she had wanted? He was taking her away, hiding her, protecting her from it all. Everything she had begged of him on the roof of the Opera was now lying in his open palm. If she grasped it, she knew there would be no going back.

"There is something I must do," she told him suddenly.

She went over to the bureau and pulled out a large brass key, so he could see her intent. It was the key Erik had given her which opened the gate that led to the underground passages beneath the Opera House on the Rue Scribe side of the building.

Christine would never forget the incredulous look Raoul gave her in that moment.

"You're not going back to him?" he cried in alarm.

"Yes," she said simply.

Raoul's incredulity turned quickly to barely controlled anger. He stood in front of her, trying to block her movements.

She sidestepped around him, brushing him aside.

"He may not even be there," said Raoul cautiously, his voice edgy. He clenched his jaw. "The Paris Sûreté found his place empty and in ruin weeks ago. Why would he go back there?"

"I don't know, but I have to try. I have to tell him I am going," she told Raoul, pleading with him to understand.

"He may not even be alive," said Raoul quietly, and Christine gasped, shuddering.

"The gendarmes have found nothing! He's still alive," she declared with certainty.

"You can't know that!" Raoul exclaimed anxiously. His eyes appeared doubtful.

"I do!" she said firmly.

"Even if he is alive, how will you find him? If he's not at the Opera House, where will you go? Where will you look?" he asked. "The gendarmes have been tracking him for weeks. And as you just said, they've found nothing."

"If Erik wants to be found, he will be found," she said mysteriously. In other words, if _she_ was looking for him, he wouldn't hide from her. Would he?

"I forbid it!" said Raoul loudly, grabbing her arm to prevent her from leaving. His grip was firm and insistent. "You will not go alone!"

"Then take me there," she beseeched him. "If you are so concerned for my safety, go with me."

"If you think I will take you back there, you are insane," he said, his eyes wide and fearful.

"I owe him! _We_ owe him! Raoul, he let us go. He let you live! Why do you condemn him still? I must speak with him, tell him goodbye. I could not live with myself if I didn't. And if you won't take me there, I will go by myself," she declared with fierce determination. She would not back down from this, not now.

"If you go back to him, there will be no wedding," Raoul cautioned, his voice low. "Do you understand me, Christine?"

She stared at him for a long moment, eyes wide. Then she nodded and asked him to leave.

"You're making a terrible mistake. Don't do this!" he begged.

"I must do this," she said unwaveringly.

"Then we have nothing more to say to each other," said Raoul, his expression confirming his disbelief the entire conversation had even taken place. He looked as lost as a little boy.

She felt a twinge of regret, but it subsided quickly.

"No, we don't," she said sadly.

And she shut the door behind him as he turned abruptly on his heel and left.

* * *

There was a new moon that night, and the sky was hazy overhead, obscuring the stars. A storm was brewing; the sky was threatening rain. There was no light except from the dim streetlamps. The curtains were drawn on most of the windows of the buildings surrounding Christine's apartment. It was a night for staying at home, nestled by the hearth. Only the foolhardiest of Parisians would venture out in this ominous gloom. She would be lucky to find a brougham cab this night.

Christine wore her dark blue cloak over a black dress, hood pulled low over her forehead. She looked like a woman in mourning. Perhaps she was!

No, of course not, she told herself sternly. _He is alive!_ He must be! She could not let herself imagine the alternative.

She walked as far as the Rue Réaumur when she saw a passing cab and hailed it in relief.

"To the Opera," she told the driver, her voice full of determination.

It was a short drive from there to the Place de l'Opéra. In daylight, she would have walked the distance. In this darkness however, it was too risky.

When the brougham came to a halt, she handed the driver his fare and descended in haste. She walked along the western façade of the building, keeping close to the shadows. When she reached her destination, she put the key in the gate and pushed inward. The gate creaked heavily under her hand. She glanced around and seeing no one, moved to shut the gate behind her.

"Mademoiselle, you shouldn't be here."

Christine jumped at the unexpected voice in the darkness. She had been so certain no one was there! She turned around slowly, her skirts suddenly feeling heavy against her legs. She would not get far if she needed to make a run for it. But then her gaze met the kindly green eyes of a familiar face, and she let out a shaky sigh of relief.

It was the Persian!

She had seen Nadir Khan around the Opera House before she had met him in Erik's lair. The two men had shared a camaraderie she did not quite understand. Erik had told her bits and pieces of his time in Persia, though nothing substantial. She knew this foreign man had played a large part in his life there. If the two did not call each other friends, at least they were not enemies; that much she knew. Erik had said he owed a great debt to Nadir. Considering this, she hoped she could trust the older man. She was not surprised at seeing him now, only disappointed in herself for not concealing herself better. She thought she had learned a thing or two from Erik in the months she had descended with him into the labyrinthine passages beneath the building. She thought she could move with some stealth and quiet when necessary. Apparently, she had not learned this well enough from him. Then again, Nadir had been a chief of police in Persia. No doubt, like Erik, he'd had a lifetime of practice in moving about unseen in the dark.

"I need to see Erik—" she started to explain, but Nadir hushed her quickly.

"Shh…. he's not here. Do not speak his name again." He motioned her back through the gate and out toward the street.

She tried to stop him. "I'm not going anywhere. I know he's angry with me, and he won't want to see me, but—"

"The gendarmes have guards posted everywhere. Come, it isn't safe here," he interrupted, lightly touching her elbow and turning her around.

There was a waiting brougham by the curb, and he gave the driver his address on the Rue de Rivoli. He held out his hand to her. "Are you coming or no?"

His eyes told her plainly that he could not speak openly unless they were somewhere in private.

She hesitated only a moment before allowing Nadir to help her into the cab. If she wanted to find Erik, this appeared to be her only option. But as they rode away from the Opera House, a terrible feeling of foreboding settled over her. The sky outside matched her mood as she stared at it in silence. Neither said a word as they rode the rest of the way to Nadir's flat. When she glanced at him now and then, it only made her feel worse. Nadir's face was grim. She wondered what he knew and how she was going to extract the information from him once they arrived at their destination.

* * *

A half hour later, Christine sat in a fireside chair in Nadir Khan's study drinking his abysmal Russian tea. He must have picked up the dreadful habit from Erik. She set the cup down, frowning at the bitter taste, and waited for him to speak.

"He's not at the Opera," said Nadir, his green eyes assessing her calmly. "You wouldn't want to go back there in any case. The place is in shambles."

"The mob!" she gasped, but Nadir shook his head slowly.

"Most of the mess was done by Erik himself, after you left," he said sadly. "Such a waste. A lifetime's worth of genius destroyed in a matter of minutes. You would not have wanted to see it."

Her heart lurched in dread and regret at Nadir's words. She had driven Erik to this; it was all her fault! His beautiful home destroyed, and at his own hands! It made her want to weep.

"He's not at the Opera?" she repeated dully. "But you have seen him?"

She guessed this was true, by the stare he was giving her. There was a hesitancy in his eyes. He looked like he would rather not be having this conversation.

"Yes, I've seen him," he admitted reluctantly. He ran one hand through his thinning, gray hair, sighing heavily. "A few days ago, he was here, nursing his wounds. Physically and metaphorically speaking."

The last bit had been muttered under his breath. He waved a hand absently at her, his eyes downcast.

"Wounds? He's wounded?" She glanced up, her mind slow to process this information. Then, she gazed at her tea cup as though she suddenly found it fascinating. She swirled the spoon around, clinking it lightly against the china. Was he blaming her for hurting Erik? A wave of guilt washed over her.

"It's nothing serious. Nothing he hasn't recovered from before," said Nadir reassuringly. "He has endured worse in his lifetime. He has some slight scratches and bruises. Hardly surprising, considering…"

"Considering?" asked Christine, concern overwhelming her.

Nadir paused at her tone before he said, "Erik was in a skirmish with one of the gendarmes. The man stabbed him in the shoulder. That's all."

He was still waving his hand casually as if being stabbed was the least of Erik's concerns.

Christine, however, gasped in shock.

"I patched up the wound. Thankfully the man missed the subclavian artery. Erik will be all right, for now at least," said Nadir, his eyes sympathetic.

She tried to keep her voice calm. "And where is he now?"

If he was hurt, she had to find him. Despite her attempts to compose herself, she hadn't been able to keep the desperation out of her voice entirely. Nadir noticed this and was assessing her again, hands folded in front of him as if he was asking himself an important question. She wondered what it was that he would stare at her so intently. She squirmed slightly in her seat.

After a moment, he said with a small noncommittal shrug, "Your guess is as good as mine."

She wondered if he was telling the truth.

"Please, if you know anything, you must tell me," she pleaded. "You can trust me, monsieur. I would never do anything to intentionally harm him. I want to help him."

"I'm sure you believe that," said Nadir. There was a note of sorrow in his voice. "At this point, I'm not sure Erik can be helped by anyone."

"What do you mean?" she asked warily.

Before Nadir could respond, there was a knock on the front door. Startled, Christine leapt to her feet, ready to bolt out of the study and fling open the door herself.

"Calm yourself, child. It's not him," said Nadir. He stood and motioned for her to sit again.

"How do you know?" she asked. It could be Erik, she reasoned. Maybe Nadir was trying to keep her away from him.

"Because Erik does not knock so politely," said Nadir, his voice wry. He gave her a half-hearted grin. "Wait here, _please._ "

And he disappeared from the room.

Christine heard muffled voices in the ensuing minutes, but they were too low for her to make out. It did not sound like her angel, but she knew Erik could disguise his voice when he needed to or when it suited his purposes. If it was Erik at the door, and Nadir told him she was there, what if he didn't want to see her? If there was a chance at all that it was him, she would not let this opportunity pass her by.

She rose quickly and burst through the door of the study and out into the main entrance hall.

"All the arrangements have been made," she heard a low voice say just before she rounded the corner and saw two figures standing in the open doorway.

"Christine!"

Her name came out in unison from Nadir and his mysterious visitor.

It was not Erik. It was Madame Giry!

"I didn't know you two were acquainted," said Christine, eyeing them suspiciously, glancing from one to the other.

"I could say the same," said Madame Giry to Nadir, her tone almost accusatory, as she nodded from him to Christine.

"What is going on?" asked Christine. Why did they seem like co-conspirators in a larger story of which she did not know the plotline? Why would the ballet mistress be at Nadir's flat if whatever they were speaking of did not have to do with Erik? And what arrangements had she been speaking of?

"Mademoiselle, please go back to my study," said Nadir pleadingly.

"No," she said defiantly, surprising herself as Madame Giry's characteristic right eyebrow rose in its telltale arch. Nadir sighed resignedly. It was ill-mannered of her to refuse her host, but she didn't care. "Where is Erik? What are you two doing in secret?"

"Monsieur," Madame Giry nodded curtly at Nadir and then spun on her heel, her black skirts spinning. Christine hastened by Nadir who half-heartedly tried to halt her but failed. She stopped Madame Giry just outside the doorway of his flat.

"Madame, please," cried Christine. "What do you know?"

Madame Giry looked past Christine to Nadir and then said firmly, "Monsieur Khan will explain. I am only trying to help."

"Help? Help Erik?" questioned Christine.

"You should send the girl home," said Madame Giry to Nadir. Then with a final nod to Christine, she spun hastily around and left, her firm steps trotting down the walkway into the Parisian mist.

"Mademoiselle, there is something else I must tell you," said Nadir quietly from the doorway, as he watched Madame Giry's figure retreating into the darkness beyond.

He motioned Christine back into his study after she stood for a full minute staring after Madame Giry in shock. The woman had once been like a mother to her, but she had just treated Christine with cold incivility, as if she hardly knew her. She didn't understand the reason for this change. She had not seen Madame Giry or her daughter, Meg, since the night the mob had stormed through the bowels of the Opera House, demanding the Phantom's head. She had tried to call on them one day but had been told they were out and would not return until late in the evening. She had not attempted another visit. Madame Giry had always been strict and exacting as a taskmistress at the Opera, but she'd never been cruel. And while she had not exactly been kind, she had at least always been honest and forthright. Like Nadir, did Madame Giry also blame her for hurting Erik? She blamed herself, so why shouldn't they blame her for abandoning him when he had needed her most? The feeling of shame intensified within her as Christine returned to the small armchair in Nadir's study.

Nadir suddenly pulled something out from a drawer in his desk and pushed it over to her, his face grim.

"Erik has given me instructions to post his obituary notice when the time comes," said Nadir without aplomb. "That is why Madame Giry came to see me tonight. The arrangements have been made for his burial."

"What?" cried Christine in shock.

She took the paper that lay on the desk and stared at it. In Erik's telltale scrawling script, in red ink, were indeed instructions to Nadir on the very subject he had stated. Erik would give Nadir notice of when to post the news in the newspaper _L'Epoque_.

"He's not dead," she said once, and then repeated it again softly. A single tear rolled down her cheek.

Nadir looked at her sadly. "No, dear. He's not dead _yet_ , but the time will surely come soon. He's preparing for it: whether it comes today, tomorrow or the next day, whether it be by the gendarmes or some stranger seeking to do him harm. There is a price on his head! Or whether it is by his own hand, you must prepare yourself. He is anticipating it will be soon."

Christine gasped in horror. "He would never kill himself!"

"If he had no choice, he would. They will not take him alive. He won't allow it," said Nadir gravely.

"I must find him," she suddenly stood, dropping the paper on the desk as if it had burned her hand.

"I do not even know where he is! How will you find him? I promise you, mademoiselle, if I knew I would tell you. If only you _would_ find him, and knock some sense into him," he said, almost to himself under his breath. "No, it's best that you go home and forget this waking nightmare. Nothing good can come of any of this now. It will only cause you both further pain and heartache."

Part of her knew he was right, but she would not back down now. However, Christine allowed herself to be escorted from the study and out of Nadir's little flat. As they stood outside in the cold drizzle near a dim streetlamp, she wondered at her next option.

"This is an ominous night," said Nadir darkly, staring at the sky. "We must get you home before the cabs become scarce."

As they waited along the curb, Nadir's manservant, Darius, handed the older man something in the darkness. She could not see what it was, but she heard Nadir grunt in gratitude.

"Take the girl home," said Nadir loudly to the driver when a brougham finally pulled up to the curb. Her fingers were growing numb from the cold, despite her thick gloves. Christine did not ask Nadir how he knew her address.

"Here," said Nadir lowly, just before she ascended the steps of the vehicle.

Despite his earnest lecture in his study and his directions to the driver a moment ago, he handed her three items, muttering they were important and that she would need them. Startled, Christine looked down at them in surprise: one was a sturdy lightweight lantern; the next, a metal flask attached to a thick leather strap; and the third was a small slip of parchment paper folded in half. He said no more. She watched Nadir out the window of the brougham as he waved a farewell, but she did not miss the sudden look of hope in his eyes.

Something had changed! Somewhere between his study door and her ascent to the carriage, he had changed his mind about _something_.

She set the lantern by her feet and strapped the flask across her dress underneath her cloak after smelling its contents. It was odorless, so she assumed it was plain water.

When the carriage passed by a streetlamp bright enough for her to see by, she hastily unfolded the small slip of paper and read the lines from _Aïda_ written in Erik's messy hand:

" _My heart foreseeing your condemnation into this tomb, I made my way by stealth and here, far from every human gaze, in your arms I wished to die."_

"Change of plans," she leaned forward and told the driver with certainty. "Père Lachaise Cemetery, please."


	5. Chapter 5 - The City of the Dead

**Chapter 5 – The City of the Dead**

The overwhelming sense of déjà vu would not be repressed as Christine rode in the carriage to the cemetery. Mere weeks ago, she had ridden on this very same path, also with a sense of purpose. She had dodged Raoul after rehearsal, when he had been guarding her every move since the masquerade ball on New Year's, determined to visit her father's grave unaccompanied, yet all the while knowing Erik would be there watching over her. She would have followed him willingly that night, if Raoul had not intervened. Over time, she had come to sense Erik's presence. And on that occasion, her instincts had not failed her. She could only hope she was right again on this night.

 _Angel… or father… friend… or Phantom…?_

Truth be told, these labels mattered little now. He was none of those things and all of those things. He was _Erik_! And she must find him!

The driver gave her a curt warning when he dropped her near the tall stone archway to the cemetery, located off the Boulevard de Ménilmontant, and asked her if she wanted him to stay and wait for her. She waved him off, effectively dismissing him, giving him extra coins for his silence.

It was well past visiting hours. A nearby clock tolled the hour. In her mind, she heard a violin playing. She wondered if it was real or imagined. It drove her footsteps onward.

Père Lachaise was a garden cemetery, built on a hill and landscaped to create the atmosphere of a park. There were thousands of maple, ash, and chestnut trees among the marble mausoleums and hidden headstones where thousands of Parisians were buried. The cobblestone streets and winding pathways turned lazily by poetic sculptures of angels and intricately carved stone benches. Perhaps this was why Christine had always found it so peaceful there. Her father rested in a place of beauty.

It had not been her father's wish to be buried in Paris. They had only lived there a brief time before he had died in Paris unhappy, longing for their homeland of Sweden. He had wanted to be buried by the sea, but her benefactress, Madame Valerius, had paid for the plot in Père Lachaise before she herself had been called to heaven, and how could Christine refuse? Professor Valerius and his wife had provided for her education and training at the Paris Conservatoire. She owed them for their kindness to her and her father in plucking them from the obscurity of a country fair in Sweden. Most of the small burial plots in the cemetery had just enough space to kneel in prayer and leave some flowers. But thanks to the generosity of the Valeriuses, her father had been gifted with a beautiful mausoleum of marble stone engraved with his beloved violin, befitting the best fiddler of all of Scandinavia. Christine would not have been able to afford such a lovely tribute to her father. And his being buried in Paris, instead of Perros, allowed her to visit him as often as she wished.

Now as she came upon her father's grave, she halted and glanced around. She didn't think Erik would be _there_ , but it gave Christine her bearings. The comfort in seeing it reassured her she was doing the right thing. But she was not there to visit her father on this night.

Recalling the last time she had been there, how disillusioned she had felt as she sang in remembrance and regret for her father, she thought again of her Angel of Music. She had believed in her father's stories of the Angel of Music, had believed him when he had promised her that he would send the angel from heaven. In learning that Erik was, in fact, no angel, but a man—a living, breathing man—she had felt hurt and betrayed. But now, standing once again at her father's grave, after everything that had happened, who was to say her father had not been right after all? Who was to say he did _not_ send her the Angel of Music? For here she was, searching for _him_ again, longing for him and feeling utterly lost without him. Had Erik not been her protector and her guardian? Had he not watched over her since the death of her father? Heavenly angel in celestial form, he may not be—but angel in the flesh? He most certainly was! Even if he did not believe it was so! And was that not a _better_ thing indeed?

There were fresh flowers on Gustave Daaé's grave. She had not left them there. They were wildflowers, as her father would have liked. They looked as though they had been picked in haste, plucked from a field or from some unsuspecting person's overgrown garden.

Perhaps Erik had been there after all, but where would he go after that? Christine brought the lantern close to the ground and searched for tracks. Winter was yielding to spring. It was still cold, but there was no snow. If there had been snow, it would have aided her in the dark. The misty air was growing colder, and she could see her breath forming crystalized vapors when she exhaled. She sensed it would rain soon. How much harder would it be to find him in a downpour?

"Courage, Christine," she told herself aloud.

She backtracked, circled round and passed by the monument of Abélard and Héloïse, the ill-fated 12th century lovers. The tomb was a popular spot in the cemetery for lovers to leave letters in tribute to the couple or in hopes of finding true love. She paused, observing her surroundings with quiet reverence. No, he wouldn't linger there. It was too conspicuous.

As she passed the tomb of Chopin and arced around the headstone of Bizet with its stone lyre, a light rain began to fall. There was a funerary chapel, the Chapel of the East, in the middle of the cemetery, its Neoclassical architecture matching the monumental entrance to the cemetery. She moved in that direction.

The white stone chapel was not large, but rectangular with no windows and a simple cross at the peak. She ascended the half dozen steps to the gray stone door, hesitated briefly, and then pushed. The door was heavy but moved easily at her touch. Her lantern cast a small triangle of yellow light ahead of her. Blinking against the darkness, she raised the lantern and looked around. There were a few small wooden chairs on either side of a narrow aisle, bronze plaques on the white stone walls, and a large altarpiece at the end of the row. It was too dark to see anything in the arched void stretching above her to the ceiling, but clearly the room was empty.

She left the door open and walked down the aisle to the statue above the large stone pedestal. It depicted the Virgin Mary holding her son's body after the crucifixion. There were two more doors on this end of the chapel. They were both locked. Sighing, she turned back around, preparing to go, when suddenly the stone door on the opposite end of the aisle, the one she had left open, swung forcefully shut.

Startled, Christine dropped the lantern. It smashed on the floor, the warm light going out.

Before she had time to panic in the pitch blackness, she heard a swooping sound, like that of a heavy cloak, and light feet landing on the stone tiles in front of her.

"That was foolish of you," the voice chastised in the dark.

She sighed in relief. _Erik!_

Had he been hiding in the rafters? She looked up out of habit, though she could see nothing, and then turned back in the direction of his voice.

"I found you," she breathed, sending a prayer of thanks heavenward.

"Don't sound so grateful for it," he scoffed. She could hear his footsteps, though his voice curiously stayed in one place. "Or maybe you _should_ be congratulating yourself? You can turn me in to the authorities or over to your precious Vicomte. Or perhaps you are seeking the reward money yourself?"

"Of course not," she gaped at his bitter tone. "Why would I do that?"

She did not feel afraid, though she could see nothing in the dark and his voice dripped with sarcasm. She knew he would not harm her, and his presence in the dark was as comforting as it had always been. His voice circled round her, though his body was nowhere near her.

"Why indeed? You have everything you need now, do you not? You should be in want of nothing. Which makes your presence here baffling to me," he said bitingly.

"You knew I would come," she countered evenly. She would not be intimidated by him. She stood up a little straighter in the dark.

There was a slight pause. The air was thick with something unspoken.

"Did I?" he asked softly.

"You left the lyrics from _Aïda_ for me, did you not?" she asked, daring him to deny it.

A light curse resounded in the dark.

"You've seen the daroga," he muttered humorlessly. "The old fool!"

Suddenly he was standing before her, less than an arm's length away. She could feel his warm breath on her face, despite the difference in their heights. She could see his eyes in the dark, two glowing orbs of light. She wondered how well he could see her with his exceptionally good night vision and if he could judge her obvious sincerity in seeking him out as truthful. Her relief in finding him had to be written all over her face.

"So, you've found me," he whispered, as if reading her thoughts. His voice was still full of that odd tone of humor mixed with something like annoyance. He sounded almost exasperated with her.

She reached out one hand tentatively toward him, but he stepped out of her reach.

"And where else would I be but the city of the dead? I fit right in, do I not?" he laughed, his voice filling the small room with its resonance. "This place is nothing but a theater of illusions, you see? Where the dead _sleep_ , peaceful in their stone beds. But do you think the dead care if they are guarded by granite goddesses or watched over by lyrically carved angels? To whose benefit is the beauty of this place for, do you think?"

She could no longer see his eyes. He sounded like he was pacing.

"This is an establishment that supposedly does not care for your nationality, if you were rich in life or wretchedly poor," he prattled on. "The conformists and the eccentric, the famous and the unknown, all end up in the same place, do they not? Where ' _every citizen has a right to be buried regardless of race or religion_ ,' or so Napoleon once said. Nice sentiments, though I doubt he had monsters in mind when he said it."

Christine was reminded of another conversation she had once had with Erik. He had talked of Death as if he were a person, someone who did not care whether he came upon a flea-bitten rat or a princess. His talk of death and coffins and morbid things had scared her then. They did not now. Although, she doubted he would believe that.

"But even that was a lie, was it not?" his question echoed off the walls. "I have resided in Paris for many years, and will likely die here, but I shan't be buried here, shall I? I daresay I could afford it, ridiculous though the price may be to _rest in peace_ here, but what would be the use? My soul will not rest in peace for all eternity. And who would come to mourn me here anyway? Not even you, Christine, would pause by my lonely grave to weep or to sing or to say a prayer for my ungodly soul."

She could hear the despair in his voice and thought of what Nadir had told her. He and Madame Giry had been seeking arrangements for his burial. Is that what he was expecting? To die here? Be buried here? But Christine would not allow him his morbid thoughts, not now that she was here!

"Erik, stop talking like this," she pleaded. "You know that's not true. And you are _not_ dying."

"Forgive my mocking humor, my dear. One thinks kindly of death when it is not upon him," he said with irony.

She thought of the lyrics he had written for her. She found his eyes again in the dark, two pinpricks of light like distant stars.

"Surely, you didn't send me here, so you could die in my arms?" she asked him, quietly appalled.

He made a murmuring noise, not an assent but some strangled sound between a "yes" and a "no."

"Erik," she chided gently.

He cleared his throat softly, obviously uncomfortable with this turn of the conversation.

"No, my dear," he admitted at last. "But what a way to go, eh?"

The last he said with such truthful humor, it took her breath away.

"Oh, Erik," she sighed. She wanted to cry from the sadness of it all.

"Forgive me," he said. "I forget how much the subject frightens you."

"It doesn't frighten me," she denied it.

"You're trembling," he pointed out calmly.

He could see that? But she wasn't trembling out of fear. Other emotions, much stronger emotions, were threatening to overcome her. But she couldn't tell him that, not yet. Feeling suddenly as though he had an unfair advantage over her, she said, "I need to see you."

She knelt and carefully felt around at her feet with her gloved hands, picking up the handle of the broken lantern, shaking off glass and fumbling to light it.

"Doubtful that will work properly again," he said dryly.

"Monsieur Khan said you're wounded. I need to _see_ that you're all right. And you are _not_ going to die, do you hear me?" she cried fiercely.

He seemed amused at her protestations from the mocking sounds he made. Ignoring this, she asked, "Do you have any matches?"

"I have very few. Would you have me waste them?" he rebuked her.

"I need to see you," she repeated stubbornly, like a child.

She heard a long sigh, and then suddenly he lit a match. The light seemed harsh; her eyes had grown accustomed to the dark. The flame flickered between two of his long bare fingers. He moved over to a lone candle on a tall candelabra near the stone altar and lit the wick. The light cast dim shadows in the room, but it was better than no light at all.

He was not wearing a mask. This concerned her less than how thin and haggard he appeared. He was huddled under a heavy woolen gray cloak. She didn't recognize it. The rest of his clothes, once fine and elegant, hung from his body like limp rags. They were ripped and torn in many places. Once so formidable, he now looked tired and vulnerable. There was pain in his amber eyes.

"You look ill," she said, concerned.

"Being stabbed will do that to a man," he joked grimly. He motioned to his shoulder, rolling his arm in a circular motion, wincing.

"Let me help you," she said, moving closer to him.

He eyed her warily but allowed her to approach him slowly. She motioned for him to sit in one of the small wooden chairs and was surprised when he obeyed her after only a slight hesitation. With him seated, they were at eye level with each other. She felt less intimidated when he wasn't towering over her. Gold eyes met blue, and they stared at one another for a long moment. She had meant it when she had told him his face no longer held any horror for her. She hoped he could see the truth of it in her eyes now. But when Christine moved to push his cloak aside, he stopped her.

He shook his head, muttering, "Let me."

Slowly, he removed his left arm from the cloak. Shrugging it down, his fingers shakily released the top three buttons on his dress shirt. He paused only when he heard Christine's sharp intake of breath. He was so thin! The shirt hung from him like a draping oversized sheet. He exposed his shoulder only, his eyes downcast. His bandage was caked with dried blood as was the dress shirt. Nadir had wrapped his shoulder well, but Erik obviously had not been taking care of himself since then.

Christine removed her gloves, unstrapped the flask from under her cloak, and withdrew a handkerchief from her small reticule. She set them on the empty chair next to Erik. When she went to remove his bandage, he flinched, but made no move to stop her. She unwrapped the dirty bandage and gently pulled it away from his wound, discarding it on the floor. The flesh underneath was discolored and puckered, an angry yellowish red in the low light.

"It's inflamed, but not infected," she said with relief. She felt his forehead. "And you don't have a fever."

He backed away from her slightly, obviously startled at her casual touch.

"It's a fever of another sort, perhaps," he muttered under his breath and closed his eyes.

She ignored his comment and looked at his exposed skin. She saw the traces of other scars on him, thin white lines, a healed gash on his upper arm, old marks and scar tissue from a lifetime of abuse. It made her want to weep, and she could only see a small portion of his body. She didn't doubt the angry lines snaked down his chest and around the side of his body to his back. She sucked in a deep breath to keep her hands calm and steady. It would not do to upset him further. And he was watching her now as though he guessed what she was thinking. She tried not to look at him directly, but it was difficult to avoid that golden gaze.

She uncapped the flask, but before she could pour the contents onto the handkerchief, Erik swiped it from her hand and took a hasty sip. A moment later, he spat out a steady stream in disgust.

"I had hoped the daroga had given you something stronger," he said dryly, handing the flask back to her. "It appears his pity for me only goes so far."

She took it from him, soaking the tip of her handkerchief steadily before working quickly to clean his wound. Erik watched her ministrations without further comment. He shuddered at each gentle touch of her fingertips.

"Am I hurting you?" she asked softly.

"No," he murmured. His eyes were closed again. She couldn't tell if his shivers were from the pain of the wound or the pleasure of her touch. Perhaps both.

She reached down and quickly tore a thin strip from her petticoat. She wound the cloth around him, leaning over him, her hair falling and brushing against him. Trying to ignore her body's instinctive reaction to his nearness and his uneven breathing at her close proximity, she eased the fabric beneath his arm with his assistance as he pulled it gingerly from his shirtsleeve and secured the cloth around his shoulder.

"There," she said, satisfied with herself, as she pulled it tight on the end and tucked the excess fabric underneath a loose fold.

She withdrew her hands from him and glanced away as he shrugged his tattered garment back over his arm and shoulder, covering himself once more. She was about to move away when Erik suddenly gripped her arm lightly. Her eyes turned to his, and she saw they were blazing yellow gold.

"Why are you really here?" he asked softly.

"I told you. To help you," she said sincerely.

He wasn't satisfied with her answer as his eyes cast bright spotlights on her, exposing her as though she stood alone on an empty stage.

"I…" she faltered. "I—I'm leaving Paris, t—tomorrow."

She took a deep breath. The room suddenly seemed very cold. A chill ran up her arm where Erik gripped it. There was a long silence where they simply stared at each other.

"To be married?"

The light in his eyes dimmed. She wanted to cry at the sadness she saw there.

"Yes," she sighed. "Do not be angry with me, please."

She closed her eyes to block out his gaze.

"I am not angry with you. Is that what you thought?" he asked seriously.

She nodded, feeling like a small child seeking his comfort and reassurance.

"Oh, Christine," his voice broke. A lone tear ran down his ruined cheek.

She leaned against him then, resting her head on his chest, half kneeling before him. She was careful to avoid his wounded shoulder. The tears flowed easily and steadily. For several minutes, he simply held her to him, stroking her hair, murmuring incoherent, beautiful sounds against the top of her head.

"So, this is goodbye, then," he whispered.

"I don't want it to be goodbye." She gazed up at him, her eyes pleading. She couldn't lose him now, not again.

"You made your choice," he sighed and pushed her slightly away from him, gripping her shoulders gently.

"I did," she reminded him softly. "And I did _not_ choose Raoul."

He looked at her intensely, his eyes blazing again. And then, to her surprise, he leaned in and kissed her. His kiss was light and gentle, but she deepened it, demanding more from his affable lips. Slowly, they found a rhythm, a cadence, until her tongue darted out to boldly taste him. His lips were salty from their mingled tears, and warm—oh, he was so warm! He was not cold and dead, but alive! In the chill cold of that chapel, a fire sprang to life in her, igniting from his lips to hers, spreading throughout her entire body to her toes. She pressed closer to him to feel that fire, to bask in the glow of it. She wanted it to consume her!

He broke away first, and they were gasping, clinging to each other. His hands were on her hips underneath her cloak. When had they moved there? His grip felt insistent and a dawning realization settled over her. She wanted him to know she was not afraid, but when her fingers went to the buttons on his dress shirt, his hands released her and moved to still hers. He kissed her hands reverently as though in prayer.

"Not here," he murmured tremulously against her fingers.

His eyes darted, his mind and limbs working more quickly than hers. He pulled her to her feet abruptly.

"The Louis-Philippe room is still intact," he said to himself, almost inaudibly, looking at a spot over her shoulder as if he could see something she couldn't.

It took a moment for her languid brain to catch up with him. She was still panting from their kiss, and it was clouding her thoughts.

"We're going back to the Opera?" she asked, confused and still clinging to him.

"Forgive me," he murmured suddenly, taking a step away from her. Her body wavered unsteadily on her feet.

For a moment, she didn't know what he was apologizing for. Then she felt his hands reach under the hem of her dress. Before she could protest, he tore another wide strip from her petticoat. Releasing her skirts, he wrapped the cloth around his head like a bandage. Only his eyes and mouth were visible through the cloth. A makeshift mask.

"It's had its uses tonight," he said of the petticoat which now lay in shreds beneath her black overskirt.

"Come," he said in his commanding voice, taking her hand in his after pulling both of their hoods over their faces.

He blew out the candle and led her out of the chapel and back into the depths of the cemetery. She wanted to protest she had left her gloves behind but the feeling of his strong hand in hers stopped her. She would brave the rain and the cold for the touch of his bare skin on hers. Perhaps he felt the same way, for after a moment, he entwined his fingers with hers. It was the only thing grounding her as they made their way across the cemetery.

Erik's stride was sure, but she didn't know where he was leading her. She followed him gladly, as he darted from tree to tree to avoid the increasingly steady rain. A loud crash of thunder and a flash of lightning had her clinging to his arm tightly. They were not moving in the direction of the main entrance to the cemetery, but away from it.

He paused by the Communards' Wall where over a hundred federates had been shot on the last day of the "Bloody Week" of the Paris Commune.

"Poor bastards never had a chance," Erik muttered darkly as they passed by.

Christine said a silent prayer for their souls when Erik suddenly released her hand and disappeared behind a grove of chestnut trees, whistling softly. A large white horse came out of the darkness at his master's sharp command.

"César?" cried Christine, spying the horse from _Le Proph_ _è_ _te_ that she had once spoiled with treats at the Opera. She had also ridden the big horse briefly the first time she had descended to Erik's lair.

Erik motioned to assist her in mounting César, but she paused.

"You would risk being seen?" she asked him in alarm.

"Would you prefer travel by way of the catacombs?" he asked, and seeing her shiver, chuckled. "I thought not."

Still, she hesitated. It was dangerous for him, open and exposed on the streets of Paris. If he was caught, it would be her fault for making him venture out from his hiding place.

As if sensing her thoughts, he said, "I need to return César to the Opera stables. I would have left eventually. Come, Christine."

He beckoned her forward and hoisted her onto César's back as another bolt of lightning cracked across the sky. He steadied the horse, then moved to mount behind her. She had not been so close to him since that first night he had taken her below to his house on the lake. Her back was flush against him and still he held her tightly to him, not allowing any space between them. She should have felt uncomfortable, but instead she sighed breathily in contentment. His arms came around her to grasp the reins, and she knew he had heard her.

She felt his lips near her ear. "Hold on tight."

She didn't need to be told twice. She clung to Erik and the horse for dear life as the thunder rumbled through the trees.

Erik guided César away from the grove and out of a back entrance of the cemetery. He kept to the side alleys and away from the main boulevards as much as possible. Their pace was brisk, but nothing to cause any alarm. They saw few people out in the dark and the rain. They kept their heads down when a carriage passed by. They were just another couple, perhaps out after a nighttime tryst, trying to get home and out of the storm. The thought should have bothered Christine, but she found that it did not. It only made her cling to Erik tighter.

They were heading in the general direction of the Opera when Erik suddenly veered to the left. They stopped in a little alleyway near Christine's apartment. Erik guided the horse under a tall awning, away from the pelting rain.

"What are you doing?" she asked, confused.

"I'm giving you the chance to back out," he said. There was no humor in his voice now. He sounded completely serious.

She listened to the rain hitting the heavy fabric overhead, its light pinging sound almost musical in the misty darkness. They had paused near a flower shop, one she sometimes frequented when she had extra money to spare. There were pots of red and white roses and yellow lilies in the window.

Despite his gentlemanly words, Erik nuzzled her neck. Moving the hood of her cloak and her damp curls aside, his lips lightly traced a line to her shoulder. His left hand wandered higher on her bodice under the cloak. Her body involuntarily shook as he held her firmly against him, his arousal evident against her backside. She wanted to turn in the saddle and kiss him but didn't dare. If she stayed with him, she knew what would happen. She should descend from the horse and let him ride into the night, both returning to the respective safety of their worlds and leave this temptation behind them.

 _Choices_ … He was always giving her impossible choices!

She blinked thoughtfully. Her mind cleared, until she could only hear her heart speaking.

"I want to stay with you," she told Erik with no hesitation in her voice.

"Thank God," he breathed, kissing her neck lightly. His sigh sent warm shivers down her spine and a sweet ache settled deep in her belly.

Then, he turned the horse around in the darkness of the night and headed in the direction of the Opera House.


	6. Chapter 6 - Blind in the Dark

**Chapter 6 – Blind in the Dark**

Christine wondered how Erik planned to smuggle them inside the Opera House with the gendarmes guarding every entrance to the building, and she asked him as much as they stood in the shadows across the street from the rotunda. They had dismounted from César and were huddled together surveying the scene. Even with the steady rain and the darkness of the night to aid them, how does one enter a guarded building with a great, white horse unseen?

"The same way I left it. Create a distraction," smirked Erik.

She should not have been surprised. This _was_ Erik, after all. And no one should ever underestimate his powers of legerdemain.

They would separate, he explained to her, giving her strict instructions to meet him in the gallery that led to the underground stables. He would lead César to the cellars and catch up with her there.

"What are you going to do?" she asked him nervously.

He pulled a pinch of black powder from an inside pocket of his gray cloak and showed it to her.

"It won't take much. There are only three guards on this side," he explained. "It's mostly harmless, but it should do the trick."

Mostly harmless? She thought of the fireballs he had thrown at Raoul in the cemetery and the flames that had exploded on the grand staircase when he had disappeared during the masquerade ball. He was obviously planning a similar fiery disruption here.

Before he left her with César in tow, she grasped his hand tightly.

"Be careful," she breathed. And then she kissed him swiftly before he could protest. He was surprised but not displeased and squeezed her hand assuredly in return.

"If this is the most difficult thing I do this night, I shall be fortunate indeed," he said mysteriously. Before she could ask him what he meant, he disappeared down the street into the mist.

Christine made her way as Erik had instructed, keeping to the shadows along the edge of the building, when a great commotion caught her attention. She hurried along as the guards ran over to investigate the disturbance. In the distance, she saw some sort of wooden contraption, a vendor's cart perhaps, lit up like a bonfire despite the rain. From the flames erupted the strangest and most fascinating thing she had ever seen. The smoke swirled and circled around to form the face of a dragon, its tongue spitting fire. As if on cue, a great crack of lightning split the night sky. Christine gasped along with the officers before her, stopping midway to the rotunda, until she heard a brief "tsk" in her ear. She couldn't see Erik, but she could hear his voice quite plainly in her head.

"Christine, go!" the voice urged her onward in a frantic, but firm tone.

She rushed on while the officers had their backs to her. Only when she reached the safety of the gallery, the sights and sounds of the street fading away, did she stop to catch her breath, disbelieving what she had seen.

A few seconds later, Erik grabbed her sleeve, and she jumped as he ushered her onward.

He laughed and said, "I'll show you how it's done sometime."

She had seen magic performed before but Erik's skills virtually defied belief. She wondered at it as they walked the rest of the way in silence through the cellars to the stables.

When they reached the stalls, Erik led César to an open space just as a man rounded a corner across the room from them. Erik grabbed Christine swiftly and swung her around into the empty stall next to César's. His body pushed her into one corner, in the deep, dark shadows of the stall where there was no light. His grip on her was sure and firm, but she could feel his heart pounding beneath the cloak. He pressed one finger to her lips.

The man stopped and stared at César, obviously flabbergasted. He turned his head from side to side quickly, apparently wondering how the horse had seemed to appear from thin air.

"Anyone there?" he called, his voice heavily accented. He sounded Italian, although seeing him clearly illuminated from the electric light behind him, she recognized him as a Frenchman. It was Monsieur Lachenal, the chief groom.

He had spoken to her once or twice when she had come to feed the animals. There were a handful of stablemen at the Opera, working various shifts to see to the needs of the horses. The Opera stables housed twelve white horses, including César, trained for the stage when a production called for the use of them.

Lachenal attended to César for a few minutes and then shut the door of the stall behind him. She thought she heard him mutter something about the Opera Ghost and felt Erik stiffen, but the man just grumbled and reached for his coat on a nearby peg.

"Stay here," Erik's command was barely audible in her ear.

Before she could protest, Christine watched as Erik left her and scurried silently behind Lachenal. He slipped something into the man's coat pocket and was back at her side, holding her fast to him again, before she could blink.

"What—?" Erik clamped his cool hand over her mouth. She had not meant to say anything aloud, but her mystified brain could not comprehend what was going on.

Lachenal paused and tilted his head to the side, listening. Christine tried not to breathe. Then with a shrug, he turned on his heel, mumbling under his breath about not being paid enough to deal with this horse dung, or something along those lines. He was almost out the doorway when an officer entered the room. Lachenal stopped short.

"What do you want, man? I was just heading out," said Lachenal, sounding annoyed.

Erik pressed closer to Christine. One of his knees pushed against her skirts, parting her thighs, and she would have gasped if his fingers were not covering her lips. His golden eyes darted to hers, a spark in the shadows. Despite herself, she whimpered lowly as he slid imperceptibly closer to her.

"Is someone else there?" the officer asked Lachenal.

Lachenal glanced around, and then shook his head. "No one but ghosts," he said darkly.

The young officer gave an exasperated grunt. "What is it with you people?" he muttered.

Lachenal crossed his arms and glared at him.

"Right," said the young man, obviously trying to remind himself why he was there. "Just reporting on the status of the gas lamps, as ordered by the managers, monsieur. They wanted everyone to be aware the master lever has been tripped, shutting off the supply to the gas globes while the workers finish the construction job. The officers have agreed to assist the lamplighters in relighting them since the men are partly to blame for the destruction. Extra men have been called in to lend a hand with the task."

Christine looked up at Erik, though it was difficult to see him clearly in the shadows, concerned at this information. This would hinder their progress below, with even more gendarmes roaming the building. She could sense Erik was frowning as well. His arms tensed, and his fingers flexed against her.

"And this should concern me why?" asked Lachenal in irritation, shuffling his feet. He appeared to want to dart around the officer and be rid of this conversation.

"The horses, monsieur?" the man replied. "The managers thought the horses might be alarmed at the sudden darkness when the gas lamps go out. As you know, they make quite a spluttering sound when the gas supply runs out."

Lachenal pointed above him. "Look up, man. We have electric lights down 'ere."

The young man stood up straighter, obviously offended by Lachenal's tone.

"Just doing my duty, monsieur," he said, saluting and then taking his leave with a frustrated huff. Lachenal chuckled sardonically after him, and then followed a few steps behind him, his mocking voice echoing off the walls as it grew distant and finally subsided.

Erik waited, long after Christine heard Lachenal's and the other man's footsteps fade away, before he loosened his hold on her and dropped his hand from her lips.

"I'm sorry," she breathed at last. She had almost exposed them.

"No matter," he said. "Lachenal will be off to Tortoni's for the night, and the next stableman won't be in until dawn. As for the gendarmes…"

He said no more on that subject, his lips suddenly going very tight.

Erik seemed to realize how close they were standing, for he looked down at her then and his eyes brightened. She was pressed against his chest, her chin angled above his shoulder as he crouched over her, her back against the corner of the stall. One of his legs was pushed against her inner thigh, the friction from any slight movement from him, even through the layers of her heavy skirts, sending shockwaves throughout her body. It was an altogether scandalous position, and Christine felt a small flutter in her stomach flip flop then turn over like champagne bubbles. Erik's heated gaze stayed on her, but he backed away slightly, straightening his knee. The bubbles burst and dissolved as he moved away. He kept his hands on her waist for a moment longer than necessary, as if to steady himself or maybe to steady her, then he stood up straight and pulled her away from the wooden boards. A lock of her hair caught on a plank, and he gently disentangled it with his long fingers.

Christine cleared her throat and ran her fingers over her hair and dress to smooth them out. It gave her something to do in the awkward silence. Her thigh was still tingling from the contact with him. She avoided touching her dress there. She didn't want him to see her nerves and how he affected her so easily.

"What did you put in Monsieur Lachenal's pocket?" she asked Erik before the silence became too stifling.

He stared at her as though debating whether to tell her the truth or not. His bright eyes had dimmed slightly; he too was trying to regain his composure. Perhaps he was struggling as much as she was; they, neither of them, were used to such intimate physical contact.

"A letter," he said at last.

"Do you know him? Or does he know you?" she asked curiously.

"No," said Erik decidedly. "He believes all that drivel about the Opera Ghost. I've run across him many times, as I like to borrow César now and again."

She noticed how he emphasized the word "borrow."

"He's not as gullible, nor the gossipmonger, as Joseph Buquet was, but he's close. I always like to make it worth his while when I come around. He tells some pretty stories to his dilettanti friends at the café," said Erik wryly.

When he mentioned Joseph Buquet's name, a man whom he had murdered, his gaze dropped to the stable floor.

"I won't justify myself to you on that score," he said to her after a moment, his golden eyes hard when they snapped back up to meet hers.

"I didn't ask you to," she said defensively.

"I don't suppose you'd believe it was an accident," he said with a hint of sarcasm. "That I never meant for that to happen? The man was a nuisance, to be sure, but I didn't wish for his death. Though in the end, it was most convenient."

Maybe he hadn't meant it, but it had happened just the same. She looked down and kicked a piece of straw with her boot.

"What of Piangi?" she asked. She dared to look at him directly now.

Erik made a noncommittal shrug. "A rare miscalculation on my part."

"So, you didn't mean to kill him either?" she tried to keep the anger out of her voice but failed.

"I misjudged the man," Erik told her calmly.

"Misjudged?" she questioned, confused.

"I didn't expect him to be armed. I intended to knock him out and switch places in a much more debonair fashion than what happened. As it was, I had no choice," he said grimly, though not apologetically.

Raoul had told Christine before the performance of _Don Juan Triumphant_ that some of the Opera staff would be armed. Apart from the officers in the horseshoe auditorium and a few of the men she had seen backstage, she had not thought of her fellow performers having weapons against him. But it made sense, she reasoned, from the viewpoints of Raoul and the managers. She had not wanted to go through with the performance, but felt she'd had no choice. Of course, _she_ had not been armed. They had offered her up as bait, an innocent lamb to the slaughter. She had not realized until later how much she resented the men for putting her in that position. Forced to betray her mentor, to risk her heart and her life, she had done the unthinkable. She had put Erik in a trap as surely as he had put her in one. Exposing him onstage had been one of the worst moments of her life, but at the time, she could think of no other way to save him. Masked, he had been a target, everyone else realizing who he was long after she had known it. The shock of his face by the crowd had spurred that crucial moment of flight which was needed to get them out of that situation. He had laid his heart at her feet, and she had deliberately provoked him. It still hurt her to think of it. They had all done things they regretted that night.

"So, it was self-defense?" she asked. She gave a little sigh of relief.

He eyed her curiously, reliving that night with her reluctantly through her changing facial expressions.

"Call it what you will. He's still dead." And he turned away from her then, exiting the stall.

She had not meant to talk to him about this, but she felt better knowing the truth. Whether it was good or bad, she wanted to know.

"I don't regret killing him, if that's what you're after," he shot in a humorless tone over his shoulder as he strode away from her.

"I'm not _after_ anything," she said, trying to keep up with him as he headed back in the direction of the gallery. "I just want the truth."

Erik halted abruptly ahead of her, putting his arm up to stop her progress. She nearly ran into him.

"Shh," he hissed between his teeth.

Suddenly, there was a loud popping noise, something that sounded like a distant explosion, and then darkness. Christine yelped in alarm as everything went black.

"Erik!"

She grasped at the empty air around her, reaching ahead of her where Erik should have been standing. Where did he go? She spun wildly, feeling nothing around her in the sudden darkness that had descended on them. The panic came instantly until he placed his hand in hers. His grip was reassuring as he squeezed her palm lightly. She gave a little sigh of relief.

"The storm," he muttered. "It must have knocked out the power grid."

She could hear the frown in his voice. His grip tightened on her hand. Then he whispered darkly, his tone edgy, _"The perfect storm…"_

"What do you mean?" she asked. A chill ran through her, buzzing to a point where his fingers touched hers. Her hand suddenly felt as cold as his. If there had been light, she was sure he would have seen the color draining from her face.

"There are over 6000 Edison electrical lamps and even more gas burners in this building, and all of them out at once! Or soon to be as they extinguish in sequence! The impossibility of it, the mathematical chances of it happening must be astronomical." His voice held amazement mixed with that curious intellectual genius as he continued to rattle off probabilities using terms that made no sense to her.

"It's too dangerous to continue," he said at last. At least, this was something she could comprehend.

"Dangerous?" she questioned.

"Dangerous for you," he said with a small laugh. "I could make my way below, even in this endless blackness. But you? With the gendarmes lurking about? I've no spare matches; I used the last of them outside. The mob removed or destroyed most of my hidden torches. Without the electric lights to guide, no automatic reignition, no gas lamps or candles or matches to spare, and the gendarmes lighting the globes one by one…"

His fingers tightened on hers once more.

"I'm afraid, my dear, we are stuck here. We have no choice but to wait here until the power is restored."

Sudden terror caught Christine. She did not know why, but she was much more afraid of the dark here than she had been in that small enclosed chapel in the cemetery. It was irrational, as she was familiar with this building and the stables, but this space was too large and open. She could hear the horses whickering, and it immediately grated on her nerves. They were obviously nervous too, their noises a sudden audible manifestation of her fears. For a moment, she thought she might hyperventilate. The air left her lungs at the thought of being trapped in the dark with no immediate relief in the foreseeable future.

"You've gone quite stiff, my dear," said Erik's voice with some humor. "I beg you not to be ill on me. My clothes may be in rags, but they're all I have just now."

He was obviously trying to make light of the situation, but his tone only irritated her.

"Don't make fun. You are used to the dark," she countered. But then she instantly regretted her words.

"Indeed," said Erik. The grimace in his voice was readily apparent.

"I'm sorry—I…" she fumbled. _Stupid, Christine,_ she chided herself! But Erik's next words did not sound angry.

"Christine, look at me," he said, sincerely. "Look at my eyes. Can you see them?"

She searched until she found him. His eyes were shining like beacons, lighthouses in a storm-tossed sea; and she was the ship, aimlessly wandering, lost and broken in the dark. All she had to do was follow that light home!

"Yes," she breathed, some of her terror instantly subsiding.

"You are safe here," he said. "As long as you are with me, all will be well. Do you believe me?"

"Yes," she told him truthfully. "But please, keep talking."

She needed his bright eyes and his beautiful voice to fill that black void and guide her in the darkness. She was begging him to take the lead; her course was unsteady without him. She swayed on her feet. He gripped both of her hands gently and led her back over to the empty horse stall, all the while murmuring soothing words with every passing step. She felt and heard the straw crunching underneath her booted feet. The wooden boards of the stall lightly met her back as he pressed her gently into the corner once more. Everything felt calm and steady until his hands released hers.

"Wait here," he whispered. And whatever trance he'd had her in was immediately broken. The panic returned. He was leaving her there?

"Erik!" She was aghast at how terrified she sounded.

"It will be all right," he reassured, finding one of her hands again and kissing the smooth back of it swiftly. "I'll be gone but a moment."

Silence and darkness were her only companions for several seconds. Then she heard a fluttering sound as though Erik was speeding from stall to stall. Impossible that he could move so fast! There must be a draft blowing from the open doorway of the gallery.

Then she heard the singing. His unearthly voice sprang to life from some heavenly place of light, and it was suddenly as though she could see again. His gentle melody weaved in and out of the stalls like a heavy, hypnotic perfume. As the sound settled over and around her, she realized what he was doing. He was calming the horses. And perhaps, she thought fleetingly, he was calming her as well.

The song had a beautiful ebb and flow, like gentle waves lapping on a shoreline. She felt her eyes closing, and her mind drifted as though in a waking dream. She could feel the sand between her toes as she walked barefoot along a moonlit beach. Her hair was unbound, her curls falling against the folds of her flowing white gown and blowing gently in the breeze. She was moving steadily, searching for something. Or perhaps it was someone she sought. She felt tranquil, peaceful. Yes, _he_ was there somewhere. She could sense it. She opened her arms, beckoning to him. Why did he not come? She was ready and willing and waiting for him…

The music stopped. She opened her eyes. Erik stood before her. He was not touching her, and she couldn't see his eyes, but she knew he was there all the same. She knew if she reached out a hand, he would be there, his image coming to life like an angelic vision before her.

"How did you do that?" she asked softly. All of her fears were gone.

"Mmm…" he murmured. Silence for a moment, then, "Trick of the vocal cords."

"Trick?" she asked. "It didn't feel like a trick. It felt very real."

"The mind is a very powerful thing," he whispered. "You were seeing, perhaps, what you wanted to see. I can't control the visions. I can only induce the feelings."

She thought again of what she had felt and seen, of the dark shape just out of sight, beyond the moonlight in the shadows along the shore.

"What did you see?" he asked sincerely.

"You," she breathed.

Silence again, and then suddenly his hands were upon her. His long fingers slid up her arms and gooseflesh rose on her skin, but she was no longer cold. She was far from cold. His hands slowly came to rest at the ties on her cloak.

"You need to get out of these wet clothes, or you'll be chilled," he said. His voice sounded calm, but there was a quality in it she couldn't place. A nervous energy rose in her as she realized his hands were now trembling where they were perched just below her chin and above her chest at the fastening of her rain-slicked cloak. Her hands moved to meet his, her fingers warm against his cool ones, and his shaking stilled.

"I have blankets," he continued, his voice dropping lower. He leaned in closer to her. "They are horse blankets, but they are freshly laundered."

She nodded in the darkness, then affirmed out loud. "Yes, of course." Yet, neither of them moved.

Finally, Christine asked him quietly, "Can you help me?"

His hands immediately dropped from her. For a moment, she thought he had left. Then without warning, his palms were upon her again. His hands were so musical, even something as simple as removing her cloak suddenly became a dance between them, a slow waltz that sprung from his fingers to her body as he touched her. She felt his tug on the ties, a slight grazing against her neck, a lingering there, before his hands swept up and removed her hood. The lithe grace in his touch had her heart pounding as he smoothed her hair, caressing her curls as he went, then pressed lightly against her shoulders, pushing the heavy garment to the ground. The cloak pooled at her feet, and she heard him sweep it up swiftly as he moved away.

"I'll hang it here to dry," he said.

Where exactly "here" was, she didn't know, nor did she care just now. Without the heavy cloak shielding her damp body, the drafty air of the stables caught her, and she shivered. The bodice of her dress had remained dry beneath the cloak, but her skirts were soaked through to her tattered petticoat.

"Turn," Erik commanded.

Despite herself, Christine gasped, catching on to his intentions. He obviously meant for her to remove her dress as well!

"I can't have you becoming ill," he said sincerely. "You can remove it yourself, or I will do it for you. But the dress must hang to dry."

"I—" she stuttered. "Oh fine!"

She made a huffing sound and then turned, bracing her hands against the back boards of the stall. She was afraid her knees might give out when his hands touched her back. Slowly, deliberately, he unbuttoned each fastening at the back of her dress. Her spine tingled as he dipped lower. Each loosening of the dress was agonizing, a slow torture as her mind wandered, suddenly imagining his hands touching other places on her body. At the last button, she felt his palms sweep up and move her sleeves aside, and she released the boards as he slid them slowly down her arms. The flames from earlier, the ones she had felt in the chapel, reignited. She was burning again, a spark suddenly struck and flaming in the dark. He had to have felt it too, for he moved closer to her. The melody his hands played on her arms was light, but deliciously sinful. How could such a soft caress cause such wanton thoughts to come into her head? She didn't know exactly what she wanted, but she knew she wanted more of him!

As if sensing this, Erik's hands moved to her hips as he pushed the dress down. His fingers made quick work of the petticoat as well, and it too soon fell to the floor. His absence was ever so brief as he left to hang the garments to dry with her cloak. Then his hands were back at her waist. She had not turned around. His chest pushed against her back as he caught her to him. She stood in her corset and undergarments, her stockings a thin cover running down her legs to her boots. She should have been cold; instead a fire burned through her veins. Her blood was humming, coursing through her like rapid notes of music as his hands began to move.

He seemed to instinctively know what she wanted, or at least what her body wanted; her mind was becoming hazy, caught in a fog of desire brought on by his beautiful hands which were now roaming all over her body. He was checking to be sure her undergarments were dry; she was sure that was it. Except his palms lingered in places they shouldn't have; his fingers caressed circles here, other patterns there. Her body was blazing now. She put her own hands up, instinctively reaching for him, but his fingers found hers and he laced them together, bracing their bodies forward against the boards once more. They lingered there for a moment as he bent over her; the hard length of him now pressed firmly against her from behind. She gasped at the contact, the sudden sensation and realization of what would happen if they continued in such a manner coming to the forefront of her mind, despite her limited experience on the matter.

His hands released hers on the boards. One of his palms moved up; he was shaking again. The vibrations of his fingers against her were startling as he slid up to cup her breast. Christine closed her eyes, savoring the sensation. His other hand moved down and lingered just above the apex of her thighs. His whole body was trembling behind her now. Her eyes snapped open as the tips of his fingers dipped lower against the fabric there. Gasping in surprise, her back instinctively arched and her hips jutted backward against him. He instantly stilled. Before she could say anything to either encourage or dissuade him, Erik broke away from her, her name a strangled cry on his lips.

His hands and body were gone, and the sudden shock of his absence sent the rushing thrill of heat which had been coursing through her to a chilling stop. He was going to retreat from her fully; she knew it, she felt it!

"No, wait!" she pleaded.

She heard him halt, and she turned around flinging herself forward and into his arms, leaping at him in the dark, hoping he would catch her. He broke her fall easily.

"Please, just hold me," she begged. "Please don't go!"

He had promised her he would not leave her alone in the dark, but she felt a moment of real fear as she waited for his response.

A hesitation from him, then his arms came around her. He held her for an indeterminate amount of time, reassuring her with soothing sounds muttered softly against the top of her head.

"Forgive me," he finally breathed against her hair. He rocked her steadily, the balls of her feet rolling against the ground in her boots as they swayed back and forth.

"There's nothing to forgive," she assured him, her eyes shut tight against his chest. "Please don't leave me. Please, just promise me that! Only that, if you must!"

There was a long silence after her pleading request. He held her still but didn't respond.

Then, after some time had passed, he murmured, "I promise."

In that moment, Christine believed him. She would have believed anything he had told her during that time. It was only later she remembered Erik's tears falling steadily against her skin, raining down on her from above, as if the very angels in heaven were weeping, soaking her in the torrent of their bittersweet sadness.


	7. Chapter 7 - As Soul Gazed into Soul

A/N: The rating for the story has been increased from "T" to "M" with this chapter.

* * *

 **Chapter 7 – As Soul Gazed into Soul**

Christine sat on a haystack at the back of the horse stall, wrapped warmly in a blanket of heavy wool. She absently wondered what color it was as she ran her hands over the thick material; it was soft to the touch despite the substantial weight of the fabric. She pulled it closer over her shoulders, hugging it to her, longing for Erik's arms around her instead.

Her eyes had grown accustomed to the dark; they opened and closed out of habit, though there was no change to the endless night surrounding her. The lone exception to the black stretch of nothingness was Erik's eyes, which flickered like twin candles in the dark, flaming to life now and again depending on their chosen topic of conversation. He was sitting on the opposite side of the stall from her—near the doorway, or so she guessed—perched to flee at any given moment. He was as far from her as physically possible in that small space. But he had kept his promise; he had not left her alone to fend for herself in that empty void. She wondered if a time would come when he would but tried to dismiss those lingering doubts. Despite the reassurance of his words, the memory of his tears, falling on her like rain, haunted her mind like a lonely melody aching to be played. She was hesitant to wind that box and open the lid again, fearful of the tune it would play; she wasn't ready to hear those sorrowful notes again.

They had kept the tone of their topics light, as they spoke of "safe" subjects after parting from their heated embrace. Christine was content with this change for the time being. Though she wished to broach the subject of their intimacy and what it entailed, she did not quite know how to initiate such a discussion with him. She had questions for him; and some things she wanted to tell him, but she could not find the right words to express her true thoughts to him. She did not know how to bridge that distance between them, but she wanted to find a way. For now, they chatted as though they were old companions who had not conversed in a very long time. In a way, they were, though not in the traditional sense.

They reminisced of their various travels: Erik of his time in Russia, and she of the days spent following her father from fair to fair with his violin. She would sing, and he would play. The sounds and smells of the stables reminded her of the days she and her father had slept side by side in the hay, in barns or at old inns, when they had been very poor in Sweden. Erik recalled similar occasions with the gypsies or with the nomads when he had wandered the wastelands of Eastern Europe with the trading caravans. Some of the experiences of their youths were uncannily similar, with one great difference, of course. She'd had her father to keep her company; Erik had had no one. Still, the travel and the music, the magic and the stories were the same in many respects. It should not have surprised her, yet their conversation was so _normal_ , it almost unnerved her. Was this how it would be to talk with him every day? Not as teacher and student, but as friends—or even more, as lovers? She pushed that thought aside, glad the dark hid her red cheeks every time her mind wandered to such forbidden territory.

But were those thoughts so forbidden? Had she not come back to him, stayed with him, knowing what could, and likely would, happen between them? Did she not want the very thing she was trying so hard _not_ to think about? If he had not withdrawn from her, would she have stopped where their actions had been leading? She didn't think so. But how to tell him such a thing! It was highly improper of her to be craving—what? —from him. Therein lay the question, the truth which sat just below the surface of her subconscious and had driven her actions on this night. Why _had_ she really come back to him? What did she really want of him? What did she need? She blushed to think of it.

"Am I boring you?" came Erik's voice dryly from across the stall.

Christine started and stuttered, flustered on how to respond to him. Even in the dark, he had caught her mind drifting away from him. What had he been saying?

"No, not at all," she replied meekly, and he laughed. It sounded like bells tinkling from afar.

"I never knew I was so dull, but then I've not had the practice of conversing like a human being, so I am afraid I am at a distinct disadvantage. It's good to know where I stand," he joked lightly. She could imagine his mouth twitching with that ironic humor of his. She wished she could see it. From his long arms to his beautiful voice to his velvety lips, she could not keep a coherent thought in her head.

"Erik, I assure you; I am _not_ bored," she told him a little too eagerly.

"Hmm…" he muttered, and she could tell he did not believe her. "So…"

"So?" she questioned after a long pause from him.

"What _were_ you thinking of, then?" he asked quietly. He sounded like he was prepared to wait patiently for her answer.

Oh, he would ask about this! She could hear the curiosity in his voice. It held that same quality as earlier, when he had calmly commanded her to remove her rain-soaked garments; it was a tone she couldn't quite place, tinged with something like longing.

She did not respond right away. Searching her mind for something, _anything_ , other than where her thoughts had previously settled, she remembered the letter Erik had slipped into Monsieur Lachenal's coat pocket. She had almost forgotten about the letter.

"I was wondering about the note you gave to Monsieur Lachenal," she fibbed. "What did it say? If you don't mind my asking?"

She wondered if he could see through her little white lie. From the noise he made, something more elegant than a snort with a touch of _knowing_ to it, she guessed he could, but apparently, he was inclined to indulge her.

"Lachenal managed Victor Franconi's stables for ten years," said Erik after a moment. "The letter was for him. I have a business proposition for him. I did Franconi a favor for the Cirque d'Été. I guess you could say he owes me one."

She was surprised at this information. What could Erik be proposing to the famous riding master and circus manager? She had spent some lazy Saturday afternoons at the Summer Circus on the Champs-Élysées. For a franc or two, the entertainment was light and fun: equestrian racers, jugglers, dancers, and clowns. She wondered if Erik had ever attended, in secret or disguise, or if his interest was purely on the business side of things. This new disclosure from him made her pause. There was so much she did not know about this enigmatic man!

Then, she remembered her conversation with Nadir and another question came to the surface.

"Business proposition? That doesn't sound like a man who is ready to die," she pointed out solemnly.

She did not want to remind him of morbid things, but the logical side of her brain would not be silenced. Erik eyed her steadily, two solid lights boring into her from across the stall.

"I like to keep my options open," Erik's tone was flat with little humor in it, yet his keen eyes were suddenly sparkling in the dark. What wasn't he telling her?

"What favor did you do for Monsieur Franconi?" she wondered aloud. "I wasn't aware that you knew him."

There was a pause, then Erik said, "And I'm seriously doubting you were pondering that letter. What were you _really_ thinking before?"

He was changing the subject. Oh, the frustrating man! But then, hadn't she been doing the same thing? And was she that transparent? Even in the dark? That he would turn the conversation back in the very direction she had been avoiding was unsettling. He may have exceptional night vision, but did it include being able to see the thoughts inside her head as though they were scrolls unraveled for his reading pleasure? The idea that he knew her mind so well made her flush furiously.

"I—" she started, then stopped and tried again. "I—well, I was… umm…"

She weighed her options. Should she press him about the letter? She was certainly curious about it, but whatever contents it held did not concern her. Should she risk his anger in pursing the subject? Or should she give in to him and allow this change of topic to be a lead-in to what she really wanted to ask him? He permitted her silence as she considered it.

Finally, she decided to blurt it out, though she wondered if she would regret it later. "I was thinking about what m-might have h-happened, if you hadn't stopped earlier as you did."

There was no response from him. His eyes disappeared in the dark. This bothered her because she did not know if he had moved or simply closed his eyes.

"What _would_ have happened," she corrected herself softly, sure she was right and wishing she could see him, but those luminous orbs remained hidden from her.

"And what _would_ have happened?" he whispered after some time had passed. When she did not reply, his voice became insistent, "Christine?"

Oh, this was ungracious of him! To ask her such a thing! To demand such an answer from her!

"Must I say it aloud?" she questioned, embarrassed yet acutely aware they were heading down a narrow pathway now, and the bridge behind them had decidedly burned. They had somehow spanned it in a matter of seconds. How had that happened so quickly?

"If you can't even discuss it…" he began in a chastising tone, then halted his words. "No, it is unfair of me to criticize. I have little experience in the matter myself."

His voice was low, reflective and yet sultry all the same. She felt a rush of heat race down her spine at the dip in his tenor, as if his hands were suddenly upon her again. How was he able to do that? A small change in his tone, and she was putty in his hands, to shape and mold at his pleasure. To allow him such power over her... She had to shift the balance somehow to be more evenly in her favor.

The silence played with her nerves, rattling her, a jittery jolt as though the lights had come back on, glaring at her; and yet, there was darkness still.

Finally, Erik spoke, "Christine, what is it that you want?"

Such a direct question! It startled her.

"What do you want of me?" he questioned again when she did not respond.

She did not know how to answer him; she couldn't answer him, though her mind formed visions in her head which she could not speak aloud. She mustn't speak of them, and yet…

Her stillness lingered too long. He became impatient. She could hear him fidgeting in the dark.

"What do _you_ want of _me_?" she countered finally. But didn't she already know the answer to that question? Had he not three weeks earlier told her exactly what he wanted of her? And what had she done but hurt and betrayed him?

Erik changed tact, his tone of voice changing with it, becoming harder and almost angry with her. "What of your Vicomte? Don't you feel as though you are dishonoring him by being with me?"

She had not expected him to ask that; and yet, it was a fair question.

"No," she replied honestly. She found it curious she had no feelings of regret regarding Raoul. She had left him behind when she had embarked on her journey this night. There was no room in her mind or heart for Raoul now. There was only Erik.

"Are you not leaving tomorrow to be married, as you said?" he continued harshly.

She remembered what she had told him in the cemetery.

"Yes. No. I don't know," she replied, confused. "Raoul said if I went back to you, the wedding was off. But he was only upset and angry with me. I do not believe he meant it. Or maybe he did. I don't know."

"So, in other words, if you return to him, he would take you back." Erik was not asking a question, but she responded anyway.

"Perhaps… He would be in the right if he did not. _If_ I return to him but…"

"If you do not…?" he finished for her.

"I'd be free," she said, breathing deeply. Oh, there was a thought! She could almost feel that freedom! It was an exhilarating taste on the tip of her tongue just waiting to be explored.

Christine rose from the haystack then, moving in the direction of Erik's eyes which appeared before her like guiding stars.

"Erik, I know what I'm doing," her whisper was firm.

"Do you? Do you really know?" His voice was distant, despite the fact she was moving closer to him.

"Yes," she replied. "There was a reason I stayed with you."

She let the blanket fall from her shoulders to the stable floor. She halted her steps in front of him. Erik's eyes were very bright before her now.

"And what was that reason?" he asked. His tenor was low, seductive in the dark.

She reached for him and found him, solid and real in that endless night.

"I need you," she breathed. She was determined to stay her course; he would not sway her now. And she wanted her intent to be clear.

Erik swept both of her hands away from him in one graceful movement, yet he gripped her wrists lightly, not releasing her fully.

"You are naïve." His tone was dry and honest yet tinged with a softness that beckoned her forward.

"Am I?" she questioned breathily. She felt like she had run a long distance in those few steps she had taken to him. Her chest was rising and falling steadily. She drew in a deep breath and said, "Erik, I am a woman."

"Mm…" was his answer in agreement. He released her wrists and grasped her waist, easing his long fingers around her. Their unnatural length almost spanned her entirely.

"With a woman's wants, a woman's needs…" Her words became stronger. She was quite sure of herself now.

"Indeed?" his question was light. Not really a question. His fingers tapped a tune against her sides.

"And you are a man."

Free to move her hands again, Christine placed one palm flat against his chest over where his heart was frantically beating. One of his hands rose to cover hers, but he did not sweep her fingers away from him this time. His hand stayed planted firmly over hers.

"The heart beating here is the heart of a man—a man who is pure, a man who is whole."

She pulled his other hand gently from her waist and placed it over her own heart.

"And here is the heart of a woman who sees you for who you truly are. She sees your beauty, your real beauty, which you try so hard to hide underneath a façade, and she is not afraid."

They stayed like this for several moments, hands resting over pounding hearts, Christine gazing into Erik's glowing eyes, linked in body as they had always been linked in mind and soul.

Finally, Christine broke the silence. "Erik, I know what I want. And I think you want it, too."

He let go of her hand on his chest, but she kept hers in place. His other hand moved out from beneath her warm fingers. Both of his hands returned to her waist, and his grip on her became desperate.

"I don't think it's quite the same thing. You can't know—" his words broke off in a half sob. He was resisting her; yet, she knew she was winning, all the same.

"Can't I?" she asked boldly. "Then show me!"

He made a strangled sound. His hands slid up, pulling her closer to him.

She knew she was innocent in some respects, but she craved the knowledge only he could give her. She needed it as surely as she needed him. She was no longer a child, but how to make him see that?

"I know you would never harm me," she stated with certainty, trying another angle with him.

His grip loosened slightly. He said calmly, "It's not that simple."

Was that his true fear? What had _truly_ made him pull away from her? Was he afraid of hurting her? Who was he protecting? Was it her, or was he protecting himself? Or perhaps he was trying to shield them both? But from what?

"You've spoken to me of this _danger_ before…"

She remembered another time in the not-so-distant past, and his assertion that even music, like _Don Juan Triumphant_ , could be dangerous. She had not really understood why he had kept his manuscript hidden from her for so long, until they had sung _Aïda_. Then, some switch had flipped, the page had turned, and they'd been thrust into a new realm where the urgency of the music brought on new wants and new needs. She had experienced that compelling feeling again on stage with him during "The Point of No Return," as well as in his lair, clad in the immaculate wedding gown he had expertly chosen for her, a frenetic rhythm that was as basic and primal as the rightful need to feel human.

"You should have heeded my warning," said Erik with a note of caution. It sent shivers through her, pulsating to the place where his fingers were tracing circles on her back. A burning desire was building in her, so much so that she could barely ask her next question.

"Why?" She needed to know his answer.

"Because you are playing with fire," he said as his hands moved down, his words harsh and husky, "bound to be burned by something you can't possibly understand. This yearning for you. This desire I have..."

He clasped her tightly against him once more. He rested his head gently against her chest.

How could she be frightened when she was holding such exquisite vulnerability in her hands? She had the power to delight or devastate him. She could hurt him without ever meaning to, but she could also make him happy; she knew she could! The weight of that responsibility hung heavy over her like a cloud. She must be careful with his heart; and her own was hanging in the balance!

"I'm not afraid," she repeated. Despite his firm grip, she was aware of his hesitancy. She knew she had the control to stop him or urge him onward now. "How can I know? How will I ever know how to tame those flames unless I try?"

He turned his head, burying himself against her. His breath was warm where his lips rested near her breasts.

"You may try, but will you succeed?" came his muffled reply.

Christine gripped his shoulders, embracing him with purpose.

"I want you to show me. Show me what it feels like to be loved by you," she said sincerely, and she heard him cry out softly. "I want to know. I need to know. I need _you_."

She stood trembling in front of him as he had been trembling before—she was now the vulnerable one—but the slight feeling of fear was lost as soon as she heard his response.

"You are sure about this?" he asked, seeking her consent and reassurance.

Her voice was patient as she replied, "Yes."

She wanted him to set the pace. It seemed important to him, and she would not rush him. He pulled her closer to him, slowly embracing her. His long, thin arms wrapped around her just as she had imagined them earlier. His head was against her chest, and she realized he was crying. Her undergarments were damp from his tears. Her hands came up, and she remembered he still had the shreds of her petticoat swathed around his face as a mask. Even in the dark, he was hidden from her. She went to tug at a loose piece of fabric, but then halted.

"May I?" she asked him. She did not want a repeat of the times she had removed his mask without his permission. Both times she had been in the wrong, and both times she had regretted it. She did not want to feel that shame and remorse again.

"Yes," he acquiesced hoarsely. She waited to see if he would change his mind, but he didn't move or make another sound.

She unwound the cloth from him steadily as his breathing intensified and eventually dropped it away completely. When her hands shifted back toward his face, he caught them and kissed them before she could touch him. She noticed how he flinched away from her.

"Please, Erik," she begged. "Let me love you."

His hands fell from hers, and she felt him go rigid, as though he was dreading this inspection from her. She didn't want him to feel like a butterfly pinned to a mounting board; she wanted him to feel safe with her. She sighed and then gently touched his ruined cheek, willing her soothing caress to calm and relax him as she ran her fingers along the jutting ridges, over tight skin and bone and sinew. His skin was soft in some places, like crushed velvet, and abrasive, like sandpaper, in others. She swept her hand from his brow to his chin, then leaned in and replaced the tips of her fingers with her lips. Erik moaned lightly but stayed still. His tears were falling steadily now.

"You are beautiful," she said sincerely. He was shaking his head to deny it, but she would not let him argue with her. "Yes, you are. You are beautiful. I will repeat it again and again until you believe it. If it takes forever, if it takes a lifetime…"

She wasn't really thinking of what her words meant and the fact that she was committing to him so easily and effortlessly, as if she had been waiting her whole life to say them aloud. She only knew they were true, that she meant them and believed them; and she hoped that he did, too.

Her lips replaced her words against him. She kissed his forehead, his closed eyelids, along his cheekbones, and trailed lightly to his chin, hovering above his lips. She ran her finger along them—they were oh so soft, softer than they looked in the light—before she kissed him fully on the mouth.

He pulled her tightly against him then and rose, kissing her in return. She could feel his need for her as his lips met hers in a crashing crescendo, then drifted away. Their lips were apart but a moment as he lifted her in his arms, swooping her off her feet. He set her down a few feet away near the blanket which she had discarded on the floor. He spread it out with one arm, cushioning some straw beneath it, while not letting go of her with the other. How he managed to do this so gracefully, she didn't know. But she was never so grateful for his agile movements as she was then. Finally satisfied, he pushed her down on the soft surface of the blanket, their legs entangled as he hovered over her. Gradually, he set his weight down upon her.

"You are certain?" he asked again. She could see his eyes glowing with desire, but also with concern. She knew if she wanted him to, he would stop. But she didn't want him to stop, and she told him so.

His lips descended on hers again, and she was lost. Time ceased to exist. All that mattered was Erik! His hands running over her body, his lips pressing insistently against hers, his tongue teasing her, their mouths moving in an urgent dance, slow then fast then slow again. His mouth moved from her lips to her cheek to the curve of her ear and down to rest against her neck. He found a spot that jolted her senses as though he had tripped a live wire, and suddenly her hands were removing his cloak. He assisted her, moving away only briefly to shrug off the heavy woolen garment. He helped her with the buttons on his tattered dress shirt as well, and soon it was discarded with the cloak.

His chest was cool to the touch, and Erik let her explore. She was mindful of his wounded shoulder; she skipped lightly over it and ran the tips of her fingers along his scars, which were everywhere. Earlier, she had wanted to weep for them; now she wanted to feel every line, wipe away the hate that had caused them and replace it with her love. She trailed along each intersecting mark, creating patterns in her mind, an intricate web of need and desire with each touch of her hands. She wanted him to feel what she was feeling, this beautiful pulsating rhythm that was burning through her veins.

She placed one of his hands on her chest and curled his fingers over the top of her corset. He paused and then slowly removed each fastening down the length of her torso. Her thin chemise was barely a covering over her breasts beneath it. Erik discarded the corset, lifting her slightly to free her from it, then settled her back down again.

"Touch me," she told him. She wanted to feel his beautiful, sensual hands on her.

He returned to her chemise, and her own fingers found his chest again. He trailed the back of one hand over her belly through the thin material, and she trembled before he swept up, cupping one breast softly, then the other. He lingered there a while as though fascinated. When he hesitated too long, Christine became impatient, reached down and pulled the garment over her head.

Now, they were bare skin on bare skin as she embraced him. She heard a gasp and then a strangled sigh from him before he eased them back down, pressing against her once more. She knew he was sobbing silently as a tear would splash down on her now and again, but she didn't care. He kissed her gently and rocked against her. When his lips broke from hers and he kissed her breasts, she inhaled at the contact. His tongue tasted her where she was sensitive, and her back arched as it had when he had retreated from her. This time he did not retreat. He continued his attentions on her skin until she was gasping for breath. The heat pooled between her legs, and the throbbing there was becoming unbearable. She remembered when he had briefly touched her before and wanted to feel that sensation again. She grasped one of his hands and moved it down below her navel.

Erik's lips stopped their motions on her chest, and he rose up to kiss her on the mouth.

"Erik, I need you," she whimpered after their lips parted. She knew she was begging, but it didn't matter. He had to know the truth. She was aching for him now, yearning to be fulfilled in a way she had never felt before. She wanted to be completely loved by him.

His eyes were luminescent with a beautiful glowing light she had never seen in them. He kissed her again.

"Patience, my love," he murmured, but his palm slid down to cup her as he said it. She arched against his hand, and the pressure increased as he rubbed tenderly against her. She involuntarily cried out his name.

Erik found the hidden slit in her drawers and deftly slid two fingers inside of them. The shock of his touch when his fingertips found her core was the most exhilarating and amazing thing she had ever felt. She shuddered as he stroked her there, sliding in and out of her slowly and easily, and she rocked against him, clinging to him as she whimpered against his shoulder. Surely, this was heaven; this was bliss!

Somewhere in the middle, Erik asked her if she was all right. Yes, she was all right—she was better than all right—she somehow managed to convey to him amidst the fever that was consuming her. She felt she would surely die if he stopped touching her now; her lungs would cease to function! She was the shiny new instrument, and Erik the master musician, despite his inexperience at playing it; and he was coaxing sounds from her, composing a melody on her body, that surely had never been sung before! The music in her took flight, the song one of freedom, as she willingly climbed a summit and jumped off the top with him, soaring somewhere beyond the stars.

Erik slowed and finally stilled his ministrations. When he withdrew from her, she protested, but he silenced her with a sweet kiss.

"That was… _stimulating_ ," he finally settled on the last word and seemed dissatisfied with it. She had never heard him stumble for words.

"That was _beautiful_ ," she corrected and pressed her lips to his once more. "I felt like I was flying, aloft among the stars. It was better than singing, better than anything I've ever felt before…"

She should have felt embarrassed by this confession, but strangely she did not. She only felt elated. She wanted him to know how happy she was, how he had created a moment of pure bliss in her. Surely, nothing was better than this!

"Truly?" he asked, awed at her words.

"Yes," she said. For a moment, she sighed with contentment. Then she said, "What about you?"

There was a decidedly long pause from him.

"What about me?" he croaked with a strange sound that was most unlike him.

"Well, isn't it your turn now?" she asked him, her eyes alight on his.

"That's very… _generous_ of you, my love," he muttered, "but I think we should keep the focus on you. My body is not… well… it's not… like your body."

She had never heard him so inarticulate. She sat up, wishing she could see more than his golden eyes.

"Of course, our bodies are different. You are a man," she stated the obvious. She had not meant to make him laugh; but his chortle threw her off guard.

"That's not what I meant, Christine," he said with a sigh, the laugh dying on his lips. "I meant, my body is not beautiful, as yours is…"

She frowned. They were back to this again, after coming so far in so short a time?

"Erik, I am in your arms. I wish to be with you, or I wouldn't be here," she began. "The way you touched me…"

She suddenly felt shy, but she willed herself to continue. She leaned forward, kissing him lightly, then deepened the kiss. Finally, after a long while, she pulled away from him.

"Erik, I wish to return the favor." Her hands drifted over his chest, trailing down ever so slowly. "But you must help me."

She stopped at the waistband to his pants.

"I need your guidance," she begged him. "I do not know how to pleasure a man. The way you made me feel, just now… I want you to feel that way, too. Please show me how to love you."

He had been her instructor in other ways; surely, he could teach her this. She knew he was inexperienced as well, but he must know what pleased him. Her hand moved lower, and he stopped her roaming fingers. But then, his hand covered hers, guiding her down to the length of him, which was hard beneath the fabric of his dress pants. She felt the shape of him and heard his breathing turn ragged.

"Erik?" she questioned.

"It's all right," he choked. He stilled her fingers. "Just give me a moment."

He did not turn away, but let out a few long, slow breaths. Then without warning, he unbuttoned his pants, releasing himself, and placed her hand firmly on his bare skin. Holding him so intimately, so vulnerable in her hand, was a sweet and poignant moment in Christine's life. She felt powerful and defenseless at the same time. She wanted to love him but felt an instant of indecision. She also did not want to disappoint him. She soon learned this was a trivial thought, for he put his hand over hers again, tightening her grip on him slightly. He then slid her hand down the length of him, then up again—and repeated the gesture a time or two. Once they moved in a slow rhythm, he released her hand and left her free to stroke and caress him as she wished. He was so soft and smooth, yet hard at the same time. It was an odd contradiction, like Erik himself. She guessed from the beautiful sighs coming from him that she was doing something right. She gradually increased her pace until Erik abruptly stopped her.

"Easy, love," his voice was like velvet, caressing her in return. "Or this night will be over before we wish it to be."

She didn't completely understand his words, but she stopped her motions all the same. He had said _"we,"_ and this made her smile in the dark; she was happier than he would ever guess she could be in that moment. He clasped her hand and brought it to his lips.

"Christine, I… you know I have never done this before," he said uncertainly, pleadingly, obviously trying to find the right words.

"Neither have I," she breathed, not sure where he was leading with this speech.

"I will try to be gentle. I will try—" his voice broke. He kissed her hand as though in a silent prayer.

Then, he was singing, humming lightly, sounds with no words. The music surrounded her as he removed the last of their clothing and held her close, settling tenderly between her thighs.

"Christine, look at me," he whispered. "Look at my eyes."

He had said something similar earlier that evening, to calm her, to steady her.

At his command, she found his golden orbs which were shining with deep love and affection for her. Her own eyes were begging him now, willing him to complete and fulfill this moment that had been destined for them from the beginning. Answering her silent call, in one swift motion, he eased himself inside of her. Her eyes widened, filled with the bright, miraculous light of his, as she gasped at the sensation. There was pain, but it was brief, and Erik was still, unmoving inside of her for what seemed like a long breath of time. Her body gradually became accustomed to the weight and size of him, and as he felt her settle beneath him, he slowly began to move. He was unhurried, deliberate, at first, but his pace soon quickened, and she was crying out against him. The music soared within her once more, but this was not a calm, soothing rhythm; it was a raging inferno of sound as passion poured out of each of them. She was soon meeting him thrust for thrust, her body instinctively knowing what to do as she let her mind go. If was as if she had been made to be with him, created for the sole purpose of being loved by him and loving him in return. Deep inside of her, Erik gained momentum with each throbbing note of pleasure, and she rode the tide with him, as they crashed against each other like waves on a shoreline. A flood of sensation burst forth in Christine, rolling over her like a resplendent stream, radiant with light, as they reached the pinnacle of their love. She had never heard anything so beautiful as Erik's voice in that moment of release, when they had reached a fever pitch of sound and touch, their bodies fusing as one in a capitulation of everything that had come before them, and everything that would come after. Nothing mattered in that moment except Erik and Christine and their love for each other, as the heavens burst with light a glorious hymn of sweet prayers finally answered in the dark.

Later, as she drifted to sleep in Erik's arms, wrapped securely around her, she thought she heard him whisper in a reverent voice the same words he had told her mere weeks ago; only this time she listened to them with all the love in her heart and the passion in her soul, and she vowed then that she would never willingly leave him again.

"Christine, I love you."


	8. Chapter 8 - Garnier's Garden

**Chapter 8 – Garnier's Garden**

She remembered the red door. It had loomed heavy before Christine, as crimson as a rose, silently beckoning like a Pandora's box patiently waiting to be pried opened. She had not known if it would lead to safety or doom; and even now, thinking back, she still didn't know.

Erik had woken her in haste. Her mind had been lost in a hazy bliss, sweet and euphoric from their lovemaking. He had jarred her awake, murmuring an apology, but his voice had been insistent. The discord from the sudden movement was like hands falling randomly on piano keys, not mindful of where they landed in their sonorous onslaught. Her groggy limbs would not cooperate, but her mind leapt to life like an instant flame, startled by the sound.

It took her a moment to remember where they were; then the flood of memories washed over her in waves as the sudden awareness of the Opera stables reminded her of everything that had happened that night. Erik was gripping her arms, pulling her gently to her feet. She wavered unsteadily, feeling lightheaded and dizzy. Her legs collapsed beneath her, and he caught her, not letting go until he was certain she could stand without his assistance. Then he was gone, explaining quickly he would return posthaste.

The first thing she noticed as she stood there in a stupor was that she was dressed: from the layers of her undergarments to her shredded, ruined petticoat to her lacy black skirts. Her corset was secured tightly around her middle under her bodice. She could feel her silk stockings in her boots. The only thing missing was her heavy cloak.

She wondered if it had all been a dream. She thought of Erik kissing her, Erik caressing her, Erik's arms surrounding her as he had made sweet love to her for the first time. Had she merely fallen asleep on the haystack after their conversation had dwindled in the dark? Had the endless night simply lulled her into a fantasy-filled sleep? Could her imagination alone conjure such blissful sensations? She tried to remember the last words they had spoken to each other and couldn't recall. She could only focus on the way she felt: swollen lips, mussed curls falling over her shoulders in disarray, languid limbs, and an unfamiliar aching soreness between her legs. She could still feel Erik's beautiful hands caressing her body, his agile fingers sliding over her skin with ease. Her muscles were stiff in some places, loose in others, as though she had never used them. No, it had not been a dream! Her body protested every thought that she had only imagined it!

It was still dark; that had not changed. The electric lights had not turned on. She could not see Erik's eyes, though she could hear him moving about in a nearby stall. She thought he must be making noise on purpose, as she knew when he wished to, he could move with extreme stealth and quiet. The light clamoring nearby was for her benefit then, just enough so she would know he was there but not enough to cause any real alarm.

Was that it? Was that why he was concerned? Were the gendarmes coming? She knew his acute senses could pick up on things others could not, but had he known so far in advance of impending danger that he'd had the time to dress her? The thought made her blush; the action was so intimate, even after everything that had occurred between them. Yet, if there truly was a risk of them being found as they were, she knew she should be grateful to him. That didn't lessen her embarrassment at the thought of him donning her garments for her without her awareness. She wondered how she had slept through such a thing!

"We must move," Erik's strong voice interrupted her thoughts. He handed her cloak to her, which had dried considerably in the interval, and she hurriedly swung it around her shoulders. His hands were then clasping hers, as he led her carefully out of the horse stall, guiding her a few feet forward before placing her fingers on the soft flanks of a horse. She heard the animal huff lightly at her touch.

"This is Gustave," said Erik softly, as if introducing them.

"Gustave?" she questioned, surprised.

"It is too risky to take César again, and he needs his rest. I had him far too long this last time," explained Erik quickly. "This horse is the smallest and frailest of the bunch, but he is steady with a good heart. He is less likely to be missed, and he will not fail us."

He spoke of the horse as though he was a fond pupil he had raised with pride.

"But _Gustave_?" she asked again, curious about the animal's name. Could it be a coincidence that the horse shared her father's name?

Erik heard her unspoken question. "This is my Opera House. I have named all of the horses here."

His tone was light but had that air of command reminiscent of the Opera Ghost. Despite everything, it brooked no opposition that he was still Master in this domain.

Christine was touched beyond words that Erik had named the horse after her father. Gustave Daaé would have liked that; he had been very fond of horses and kind to all animals. That his spirit lived on in another living creature was an idea that comforted Christine. It had been a lovely gesture, but there was no time to tell Erik so. He was already hoisting her sideways into the saddle. He mounted behind her, and they were moving before she could express her gratitude.

As he guided them out of the stables and into the gallery, she heard a loud ruckus behind them. Erik turned them around in a wide swing, and Christine saw with dismay two lines of officers marching their way, bearing bright torches and heavy pistols. The sudden light, after being so long in the dark, hurt her eyes. She held up one hand to block out the treacherous rays.

One of the officers, obviously startled by their sudden appearance, halted his steps abruptly, causing the next man in line to slam into him from behind with brute force. The first man dropped his torch on the stone floor, and it rolled between the men and their horse, shooting dancing shadows into the cavernous space. Christine clung to Erik as the horse instinctively backed away from the flames. Erik's hands on the reins tightened. His body was tense behind her, poised and ready to strike.

Erik hesitated only a second. Before the men could raise their guns, his hand flew to his cloak pocket, shot out and then showered down a rain of black powder a few feet in front of them. It hovered in the air like a shimmering mist, a momentary shield against the guards, before connecting with the torch on the ground. A fireball instantly erupted, its flames bursting to life as though thrown from an angry god. The horse reared backward, but Erik held firm to Christine; his grip around her waist was steady and tight. All hesitancy gone, he turned them hastily around and retreated from the cacophony of screaming voices behind them. Christine's eyes burned with the vision of the chaotic flames leaping at the startled men, vengeful specters of fire all too eager to embrace them.

As they made their way out of the Opera House, striding forward onto the dim streets outside, she heard Erik say through gritted teeth tinged with ire, "Lachenal tipped off the guards."

The chill of his tone settled over Christine, and she was quite sure the chief groom was lucky to be far away from the Opera Ghost on this night. If he had stayed with the officers to investigate his suspicions, she was certain that Erik would not have let him live.

They rode in silence, the Parisian night swallowing them in its blackness, until Christine realized she did not know where they were going. At one point she asked Erik, but he did not respond. They wound around the Place du Carrousel, passed by the ruins of the Tuileries Palace, and carefully crossed over the Seine. The rain had stopped, but the bridge was slick with moisture, and the river was rushing at a rapid pace. The streets were empty as they traveled down the Rue de Seine to the Boulevard Saint-Germain. She was not as familiar with the Left Bank of the city. She guessed if they traveled much farther, they would soon be in the slums of Paris.

She nervously wondered where Erik was taking her and why. Were they to hide out in some disreputable establishment until the danger passed? She could not stop her mind from wondering what he was thinking since they had made love. He had always treated her with respect, as a gentleman would treat her. Would that change now that they had been together? What must he think of her now? Would he think her a fallen woman?

But Erik slowed the horse on the boulevard in a respectable district, before her thoughts could run away with her. He helped her dismount once they had halted to a stop.

They had come to a house with a red door. A streetlamp burned bright here. The architecture of the building seemed familiar to her, the stone an ivory white with long colonnades, the intricately carved door a stark contrast against the cream-colored marbled surface of the walls. There was a heavy, gold plaque above the door with an engraved number which was partially blocked by ivy growing up the building and curling around the curved balustrade of an overhead balcony, near windows trimmed with the same crimson color as the door. It was a handsome building, yet imposing, almost intimidating, as though someone very learned had chosen it with careful deliberation because of its imperious, overly-dignified appearance. She imagined for a moment a stuffy professor lived inside or a librarian with mountains of books piled high to the ceilings, the sort of souls who looked down their spectacle-rimmed noses at the common, uneducated man.

Before her imagination could ponder further, Erik strode over to the door and purposefully knocked with three long strikes. She was surprised by his boldness; his knuckles rapping against the door's surface with loud clarity had disrupted the peaceful quiet of the night surrounding them. She cowered behind him, suddenly fearful of who would appear on the other side. Would it be friend or foe, behind that imposing red door?

Her fears soon subsided, however, when a pinch-faced young woman suddenly opened the door. It was a young maid in a black dress, her apron stark white and well-starched, tied tightly around her waist. Her eyes widened with terror when she saw Erik, and her face turned as colorless as the apron. Her mouth formed a little "o," but no sound emerged from her horrified lips. Christine remembered then that Erik was not wearing a mask. For a moment, Christine thought the girl was going to slam the door in his face, but someone behind her stopped her movements.

"Henrietta, who is it at this ungodly hour?" cried a man's unfamiliar voice.

The man was clearly annoyed by the intrusion. He was descending steps in rapid strides behind the young woman. She curtsied to him and abruptly turned on her heel, without glancing back at the open door. Her rude demeanor did not phase Erik, who merely smirked in response, but the other man was clearly appalled.

"What is the matter, girl? Have we been set upon by thieves? Blast it! Who in God's name…?"

The man paused in the doorway as he peered out at them suspiciously.

"Holy Emperor!" he exclaimed loudly. The shock on his face was apparent.

"Well, are you going to just stand there, Garnier, or are you going to let us in?" asked Erik smoothly with a small smile.

* * *

"This is most out of the norm," said Charles Garnier as he stood by his disorderly desk, staring at the man before him.

He had obviously seen Erik unmasked before, for he did not seem surprised by his face. He acted merely discomfited, evidenced by the way he had restlessly ushered them into his study and how he stood before them now, shifting slightly from foot to foot. The man had an odd, nervous energy as though he did not like to sit still for any long length of time. The fact that he was fully dressed at this late hour was only further proof of this. He had barely acknowledged Christine.

"Erik, what are you doing here? It's past midnight! And don't think I don't know you're a wanted man! You shouldn't be here!" he cried quite forcefully. Despite his small, frail stature, the man had an aggressive voice.

Erik, however, was unaffected by this. He clearly knew the architect well, better than Christine had ever guessed he did, by the ease with which they spoke to each other, despite the other man's astonishment at their being there. Christine had seen him at the Opera House from time to time, visiting in some official capacity, though they had never been formally introduced.

"It seems I'm calling in quite a few old debts," said Erik in a low tone. It had a warning edge to it. It made Christine nervous, but apparently it did not phase Garnier, for he only scoffed and made a dismissive wave with his hand as he sat behind his desk. He gestured for them to sit in the seats opposite, but Erik did not move. Christine stood by his side, wanting to cling to his arm, but feeling it would be inappropriate in front of the other man.

Erik raised his voice slightly and stated matter-of-factly, "I am not here for myself, Charles. I need your assistance for Mademoiselle Daaé. Can you provide shelter for the remainder of the night? I promise I will be out of your hair at dawn."

There was an earnestness in Erik's voice as he switched to Garnier's first name, but it wasn't quite a plea from him. Christine glanced at him, confused, but he kept his gaze on Garnier. He motioned smoothly in her direction so that Garnier turned his attention to her. The architect leaned forward over his messy desk, taking in her appearance, looked back at Erik patiently and sighed.

"Louise will be quite displeased," he said, his angular face turned down in a frown.

"Naturally," replied Erik dryly.

Garnier nodded at Christine, addressing her at last. "Mademoiselle Daaé, I have seen you on the stage. You are quite the talented singer, though I don't pretend to be an expert in such matters."

Was this a compliment? She supposed she should take it, though the man had sounded less than admiring.

"Thank you, monsieur," she said quietly.

He watched her for a moment, his dark eyes keen, then cast an odd look in Erik's direction. It was almost pitying, and Christine could sense rather than feel Erik stand up straighter. Garnier's deep-set eyes swept up and down her again, then settled on Erik once more. The lines on his face turned down in worried wrinkles as his frown deepened.

"You look like hell, man! Pardon me, mademoiselle."

Erik gave a grimace but didn't reply for a long length of time. The two men stared at each other, and Christine wondered at their history. There seemed to be a polite, mutual respect between them, but Garnier's eyes were wary, and Erik's body stood stiff beside her. She imagined he'd had to set aside some pride to beg for this man's help in the middle of the night.

Finally, Erik said, "I need to speak with you, Charles, in private."

Garnier glanced at Christine again, then nodded at Erik. "Of course."

He called Henrietta into the room. Had the girl been eavesdropping at the door? She appeared quicker than Christine could blink. She stayed as far away from Erik as possible and would not even come forward when Garnier beckoned her nearer.

"Please take Mademoiselle Daaé to the guest suite," ordered Garnier, obviously exasperated with the girl as he waved his hand to dismiss them. Then he told Erik, "I'll also have my man see to your horse."

The girl huffed and murmured for Christine to follow her. She did not want to leave Erik, but the two men were staring so intently at one another now, she dared not refuse. She followed the girl out of Garnier's study and into the hall beyond. They ascended a double-wide staircase of sturdy mahogany wood, and once again Christine was taken in by the refinement of her surroundings. The house was not a great one, not large or grand like the Chagny estate, but it was furnished with fine furniture and the colors were pleasing to the eye. The atmosphere spoke of an intelligent man with good taste who chose his décor with obvious care.

Once they reached the guest room, Henrietta left without an acknowledgement in her direction. She returned a moment later, threw something carelessly on the bed, and left again in a whirl of black and white skirts.

The bedroom was modestly furnished with a four-poster bed, a full-length mirror, a writing desk and matching chair, a set of tall dresser drawers, and a lamp fixed to a small table nearby. The coverlet and curtains were a dusky blue. Christine noticed the maid had haphazardly thrown a lace night dress of pale pink with a silk dressing gown for cover on the bed. They were a little on the large side for her. They must belong to Garnier's wife, whom he had mentioned earlier; the one who would be displeased with their being there. How would she feel about loaning Christine her nightclothes? She doubted the woman would be happy about it.

The adjoining washroom had indoor plumbing, and Christine was never so grateful for it. She washed up quickly, then stopped to stare at herself in the gilded mirror above the washstand. She looked positively wild, like a wanton woman. Her already large blue eyes were wide, too large for her oval-shaped face. Her dark curls were in complete disorder, hanging over her shoulders in a tangled mess. Her skin was paler than usual, but her cheeks and lips were stained red. What must Monsieur Garnier think of her? She was sure she could imagine what Henrietta had been thinking.

After discarding her clothes and folding them neatly on a nearby shelf, she pulled on the lace gown and robe in haste. Christine pulled a comb out of a nearby drawer and set to work on calming her curls. Once she had smoothed her hair to her satisfaction, she tied it with a wide satin ribbon from a nearby basket of odds and ends. She returned to the bedroom, wondering what to do next.

Would Erik come to her? Surely, he would not come to her bedroom, not in Garnier's home as a guest, but then where would he go? They had only spoken of her accommodations downstairs, not his. She wanted him with her, yet she knew it was highly improper now that they were in the company of polite society.

She sat on the bed and stared at the mirror which rested opposite the window. The drapes were open, showing the reflection of the black sky beyond the square panes. The clouds had parted since the storm had cleared, and a few stars were peeking out from behind their diaphanous forms. The distant points of light reminded her of Erik's eyes; they appeared so close, yet they were so far away.

It was then that Christine realized Erik had not looked at her once since they had left the Opera House.

* * *

The window had a balcony. Christine discovered this in her restlessness as she tried to calm herself enough to settle down to sleep. But she couldn't sleep, not knowing where Erik was or what he was doing. She wondered if he was still downstairs talking to Garnier. Surely, a good three quarters of an hour had passed by. Were they still conversing? He wouldn't leave her there, would he? The thought crossed her mind briefly, but she dismissed it. She did not believe he would leave her after what had happened between them. At least not of his own volition, she reasoned; but what if Garnier had asked him to leave? What if his wife had woken and demanded Erik's removal from the house? Could Erik trust the man? And what of the maid? She could have alerted the gendarmes! All sorts of scenarios played through Christine's mind, preying on her fears, one by one, until there was nothing left but silence and emptiness. She would go mad if she stayed like this, alone and stifled in this unfamiliar room.

She rose from the bed and went over to the window. It was then she discovered the latches hiding behind the dark drapes framing the double-wide glass. She pushed on the hinges, releasing the lever to open the window to let in some fresh air. She took a deep breath, relishing the cool air in her lungs when she noticed the iron balustrade, like the one she had seen out front of the building. She leaned out the window as it swung wide and saw a small landing with steps leading down from the side of the railing. Curious, she swung her legs over the window sill and stepped out onto the small balcony.

The balcony overlooked a garden in an inner courtyard set inside the four stone walls of Garnier's house and the surrounding buildings. A gas lamp was burning low somewhere. She could see its dim hue lighting the dark with a welcoming glow. The garden was not large but grown up enough to catch her immediate attention. Christine circled down the small staircase and stepped onto the soft, damp grass. She'd forgotten her shoes in her haste. The night air was cold, and her feet would suffer on the rain-soaked blades, but she found she didn't mind so much.

The garden was filled with daffodils and roses, hyacinths of deep blue, anemones and tulips. The purple and pink hues caught her attention. The yellow daffodils glowed. And there were red and white roses, her favorite hues, growing on a nearby trellis. Underneath the trellis was a stone bench of smooth, cream-colored marble. She stepped closer to get a better view of it. The bench was intricately carved in circular designs with words rimming round the top of it. In the low light, she could not make out the words. It looked like poetry perhaps. Before she could investigate further, she heard a voice coming from the darkness behind her. She turned at it instinctively, at once calm and excited to hear the glorious notes of its owner.

"Garnier carved that for his wife," said Erik.

He was leaning against a large pot of hellebores, their star-like centers catching Christine's eye. His posture was casual, as easy as his tone of voice had been. Like her, he had been given a new set of clothes. But he was not dressed for bed as she was; he looked like he was ready to return to the Opera as a patron. His elegant evening dress was a sharp contrast to her rumpled, oversized dressing robe. She also noticed, with surprise, he was wearing a mask. It gleamed white from the light of the gas globe behind him where it hovered on its lattice-work iron stand. Where had he come by it? The evening wear, she could guess, even given the difference in statures between him and Garnier, but the mask? Why would Garnier have one?

She could not see Erik's eyes. This made her uneasy. She returned her attention to the white stone bench.

"What does it say? I can't quite read it," said Christine, knowing his eyesight was better in the faint light.

He didn't move from where he was standing. He recited quietly, _"Did my heart love till now? forswear it, sight! For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night."_

His voice was low and husky, filled with layers of meaning, and it stirred her senses, sending delicious shivers up and down her spine. She pulled the dressing robe closer around her.

"Shakespeare?" she guessed. _"Romeo and Juliet?"_

"Mm…" was Erik's response. The shivers gathered and dispersed with his melodious tone.

"That's very romantic," she breathed, thinking of how lovely it was that the architect had dedicated such a thing to his wife. To know that kind of love and devotion, a lifetime's worth of faithfulness to one another. She felt envious of the couple. She wondered if she would ever have that with Erik and realized with a start that she wanted it. She craved it with all her heart and soul, but she wasn't ready to tell him that yet. She was afraid of making such a confession to him. And wasn't she already walking a fine line with him, not knowing exactly where they stood after their night together? They had discussed nothing about it, nor what it had meant yet. And she didn't dare ask him, for she was fearful of what he might say.

"Indeed," replied Erik with some irony. "I never knew Garnier had it in him."

She gave him a small smile at this comment, grateful to send her thoughts in a different direction. She was becoming more accustomed to Erik's particular brand of humor. Despite his sarcasm, she heard the respectful admiration beneath it.

"You are friends? You built the Opera together?" She was curious to know more about his past. He had shared so little with her. She knew his life had been industrious in some respects yet stark with acute loneliness in others, but she was missing the details.

"I doubt he would call me a _friend_. More like a nuisance he's had to put up with for twenty years," snorted Erik irreverently. "He's always had the most outrageous ideas. He wanted the Opera to have a restaurant. Did you know that? But the budget would not call for it. Another of his plans had a rooftop terrace, complete with a bistro open to the public. Can you imagine the aristocrats going for that? As magnanimous as his gesture would have been, it lacked a certain practicality. Not unlike this place."

He made a motion, sweeping his hand elegantly, and pointed smartly around them. Christine tried to see what he was seeing amidst the overgrown plants of the garden.

"For all its beauty, the flowers are cramped here, fighting for space, hoping not to be neglected. The daffodils are lacking sunlight here. The anemones are craving better soil. He need only have planted the roses and not overdone it. But Garnier tends toward the grandiose, as the exterior of the Opera House proves, of course."

Christine thought again of the red door gracing the exterior of the home. Was this another of the architect's eccentricities?

"I think this place is beautiful," she said, waving in a similar, though not as graceful, fashion as he had done. "A little oasis in the middle of nothing but stone walls. It's quite ingenious, if you ask me."

"Yes," said Erik, frowning now. "Nature surrounded by artifice. Not unlike the Bois de Boulogne, as we once discussed. Elegance and pretense. A well-disguised lie."

She remembered their conversation as they had once visited that park. He had said it was "not real nature." That it had been designed to deceive the senses, a feat of engineering meant to be nothing more than a clever illusion. He was obviously implying Garnier's garden was the same; another place that wore a mask to hide the truth beneath it.

"And yet, there is a kind of beauty here," he relented thoughtfully. "Garnier has given the surrounding buildings access to the garden. The entire block can enjoy it. He is not selfish, nor ungenerous with his creation. He wanted to share it, not only with his wife, but with his neighbors. There is a kind of beauty in that."

"You sound as though you admire him," she observed. "And would you call him a friend? Like Monsieur Khan, perhaps?"

"No, not like Nadir," said Erik softly. Then he added with mocking humor, his hand planted firmly on his chest, "The daroga holds a special place in my heart."

He was not being serious and yet, there was truth in his words.

"You jest, but I know you feel differently," she said, moving closer to him. He looked ready to back away from her, like a restless tiger suddenly trapped and cornered in that small space. She again wished she could see his eyes. "You must feel like you can rely on these men."

"Erik relies on no one," he said, all traces of humor gone. It bothered her when he spoke of himself in the third person, as if he was disconnected from himself and speaking of someone he hardly knew.

"You can rely on me," she told him with sincerity. She edged closer to him still. After everything that had happened between them, he was still wary of her. He was still mistrustful. One night could not erase a lifetime of doubts and disappointments. She knew she had a hard task ahead of her, but it was one she willing to work on, day after day, if need be—to earn back whatever fragile trust he had once given to her, and she had hastily broken in her thoughtless dalliance with Raoul. She had let her friendship with Raoul cloud the truth of her feelings for Erik, and in doing so, she had hurt him in innumerable ways. Would it take her a lifetime to gain back that trust? Whatever it took, Christine realized she was willing to risk it, one moment, one small gesture at a time, if she must.

She felt bold again, almost defiant, as she had back in the stables at the Opera. She moved over to him carefully and touched his shoulders, then slid her arms down and securely around him, embracing him with purpose. She pressed her head against his chest. He was warm, a contrast to the cool night air. His arms were slow to embrace her in return.

"You should return to bed," he whispered against her hair.

She thought she felt him nuzzle against her softly, but she wasn't sure. He was holding her as if she was something fragile that might break under the weight of his hands. Why did he seem so hesitant with her now? It suddenly felt as though all the walls she had torn down earlier that night were carefully being erected again. She must intervene before he built them too high for her to penetrate.

"What of you?" she asked. Her arms tightened around him pleadingly, willing him to feel her love. "Where will you sleep?"

She did not like the thought of being without him. Even more, she was fearful of what he might think or do without her. She wagered neither of them should be left alone in the dark, where nothing but doubts would fester.

"I promised Garnier I would not leave this garden," he said quietly, and added, almost as an afterthought, "as much as the idea of being caged behind these four walls disturbs me, no matter the beauty of the surroundings."

When he said the word "caged," Christine could not suppress a cold shiver from shooting down her spine. What had his past been like? What had he endured? This was a man who would not be defined by limits. He would not be confined or restrained by barriers, physical or otherwise, any longer. The time for that had passed.

He continued, "If the Madame catches me in the house—"

"You can't sleep out here!" Christine interrupted in dismay. "Where? On the cold, stone bench?"

There was a long pause from Erik, before he said darkly, reflectively, "I will survive. I have survived worse."

She pulled back to look at him then, releasing her grip on him to move her hands to his shoulders, rising on her tiptoes as she did so. Her breasts brushed against his chest, and even through the layers of their clothing, she felt him shudder. Her lips were close to his ear as he leaned down slightly to accommodate her. His hands were spread wide on her back. She wanted to melt into his embrace.

"Come to bed," she whispered to him enticingly, then added two words after brushing her lips against his, "with me."

It was the most provocative request she had ever made aloud. She waited for his response. She was no good at this seduction thing. She had no practice in it and did not know how to ask him for what she wanted. How to invite him to her bed without feeling like she was committing a sin? She should not feel guilty for her feelings, for they were true. But it was not what she had been taught; it was not the proper way to behave.

For a moment, she thought he was going to kiss her. Instead, he straightened his shoulders and her feet slid back to solid ground.

"Return to your room, Christine," commanded Erik in a stern voice, releasing her and pulling away from her grip.

Her disappointment was acute. She felt like pouting, for him to reject her so! She backed away, astonished at his dismissal and turned to leave him, feeling forlorn at being parted from him.

Then he added in a low tone, his tenor temptingly teasing behind her, "I will join you shortly."

Happiness gripped Christine's heart as she spun on her heel and smiled at him. She clasped her hands in front of her like an expectant child on Christmas morning, her feet bouncing up and down on the soggy grass.

His eyes were still hidden from her, but she thought she saw a faint glimmer behind the mask.

"I cannot be seen," he said seriously. "Or heard, for that matter."

She nodded her head in agreement, trying to look solemn, but she could not contain her grin or her excitement from him. Impulsively, she leaned in and kissed Erik on his masked cheek.

"Soon, my love?" she asked him hopefully.

She thought she heard him chuckle as he backed away from her, turning down the gas lamp behind him.

"Soon."


	9. Chapter 9 - Arpeggio

**Chapter 9 – Arpeggio**

The bronze clock on the dresser nearest the bed, the one Christine had not noticed when she had first entered the guest room in Garnier's house, ticked and ticked. It was a handsome clock, she discovered, as she rose to examine it two or three times, with its gilded lady in her golden dress and long curls, seated on a stool reading a love letter. It could have come from the Opera itself, it was so ornate. She had seen similar pieces in the salons off the Grand Foyer. This one had curved feet with a motif of falling roses. The woman appeared to be crying over the letter, discarding the roses in a cascade of bronze petals. Was her lover dead, killed in some great war? Had her betrothed abandoned her for another? Or perhaps, she had loved someone only to be rejected in return? What words in the letter were causing her such distress? On the opposite side of the timepiece, lying on a pile of gold coins was a dead peacock, an ill omen. Overturned and abandoned beside the peacock was a golden harp. The clock was beautiful, but its symbolism, whatever it might be, was tragic and sad, and Christine conjured all sorts of stories in her head for it as she stared at its moving hands waiting for Erik.

Where was he? A good twenty minutes had passed since she had left him in the garden. Then thirty. After an hour, she decided he must have changed his mind about joining her. Tired of watching that lonely clock, Christine turned off the lamp by the bed and crawled under the covers. She had left the window open, and the breeze blowing across the room was cold. She tugged the blankets tighter around her body. A faint glowing light drew a thin line across the floor from the hallway beyond. There were shadows on the ceiling, and she watched them dance across the beams overhead until her eyes grew heavy.

She did not know how much time had passed when she heard a noise and snapped open her eyes. It was pitch black again, as though she was back in the Opera stables. Whatever lamp had burned in the hallway had been turned out. The dancing shadows had disappeared, and a breath of wind could be heard next to her, the faint sound of an angel sighing.

Alarmed, Christine sat up in bed, panic overtaking her on instinct, before she heard Erik's soft voice say, "Calm yourself. I am here."

Feeling foolish to be caught so unaware, she tried to slow her franticly beating heart as she let her hands fall to the coverlet. One hand hit fabric, a downy cushion of blanket beneath the pads of her fingers. Her other hand hit bone. The hard muscle of Erik's forearm flinched at her touch, but otherwise did not move on the bedspread.

Startled at the realization he had crawled into bed with her, Christine flushed and said, "Oh, I—I didn't realize you were there—I mean, when did you—how long have you been there?"

Erik laughed at her stuttering. "You were sleeping so soundly, I did not wish to disturb you."

"Oh," she said again. One hand flew to the neck of her dressing gown. It was still fastened to her chin.

"No need to be concerned for your virtue," said Erik with a touch of icy humor. "I have been a complete gentleman. My feet are planted firmly on the floor."

"I wasn't concerned," she said quickly to hide her embarrassment over her modesty.

She moved her hand along his arm, feeling the thin linen of his dress shirt beneath her fingertips. He was still clothed (of course, he was!), and as she slid her hand to his chest, she realized he was sitting at an angle; his body was turned slightly away from her. So, he had not crawled into bed with her. He was merely sitting on top of the coverlet at her side. She was half relieved, half disappointed. She should have known he would never be so bold with her; and yet, after the intimacy of earlier that night, she no longer knew where the boundaries lay between them. Maybe, neither did he.

She heard him clear his throat. "Is it all right that I sit here?" he asked quietly. There was something in his tenor, a calm reserve that sounded unnatural.

"Yes, of c-course," she stuttered again, then sighed. Must they be so awkward with each other? She did not like this distance between them, full of unspoken words. She tried again, "Erik, you are most welcome here. I invited you, did I not?"

She heard him murmur an assent, but he said no more, nor did he move from his position on the bed. Christine realized then she was going to have to take the initiative, or he might sit stiff as a board next to her for the rest of the night. And she didn't want that.

"Why don't you join me?" she asked shyly. She pushed the covers down past her waist, inviting him beneath them, but Erik did not budge. Exhaling with another sigh, she leaned against him, burying her head against his chest. His arm was slow to come around her, but when it did, it felt heavy and comforting. He made a little humming sound, but otherwise remained silent. She traced the buttons on his dress shirt.

"Where have you been?" she asked curiously. For a long while, Christine did not think he was going to answer her.

Eventually, he said, "Out."

"Out?" she asked, sitting up to see his eyes, but she saw nothing in the dark. "Out where?"

"I had some business to attend to," he said mysteriously.

"Business? At this hour?" she questioned aloud, then realized her speech was carrying too far. They must not disturb the rest of the household. The last thing they needed was Henrietta walking in on them; or worse, Garnier's wife!

When he did not reply, she remained silent as well. She could press him on the subject, or she could let it go, for he was with her now—and that was all that truly mattered, wasn't it?

"Well, I'm glad you came back." Her words felt stilted on her tongue. She took a deep breath and tried again, "I mean, I wanted you to come."

Erik remained rigid beside her, as though he did not dare to reply to her. Frustrated, and fearing he did not believe her, she drew away from him, swung her feet off the side of the bed, and stood up. She intended to turn the lamp on; she wanted to see him, but she heard a slight hiss from Erik, then a clear, "No."

No one could know he was there, but she still had the feeling he was hiding, not from the others, but from her. She didn't like it. After the beauty of all they had shared, they were now acting like distant strangers. She paced across the floor as far as she could go without hitting any furniture blindly in the dark, using the length of the bed as her guide. Then she paced back. She stopped a moment, then said softly, more to herself than to Erik, "I did not intend for you to be uncomfortable. When I invited you, I thought you wanted to be here with me… I thought—"

She swung around, intending to pace back across the floor as her mind raced ahead of her. Instead, she ran straight into Erik. She had not heard him rise from the bed, had not heard him cross the room and come up behind her. It was unnerving, how quiet he could be in the dark. She would have gasped, as his fingers grabbed her wrists, but his mouth swiftly descended on hers before she could make a sound. The pressure of his lips surprised her; they were needy and insistent. His kiss was passionate, as if he had never kissed her before—and she found herself silently yielding to him. He was still wearing the mask; she could feel the edges of it digging into her cheek. She wanted to reach up and pull it away, but Erik moved her hands behind her back and locked them gently there. She would have asked him to remove it, if she could stop and catch her breath, but the kiss continued as if he could not get enough of her, as if he were a drowning man and she the oasis in the desert. He was drinking her in, and she was quickly losing herself to him, her will becoming an empty pool as she let him take control.

Erik had never kissed her like this before! There was a demand on his lips that had not existed earlier that night. His lips were moving against hers like a desperate man's, full of a want and need that she had not anticipated. Earlier he had treated her like glass, as though she might break like a fine china cup. Now, she was being molded by his touch. He was creating her anew, spinning a web of desire to a point of crystalline clarity within her, where it shone like a multi-faceted diamond in the dark. That light burned bright, and he released her wrists and swept her up. He held her close momentarily, his lips never leaving hers before placing her sideways on the bed. Then he was pushing her down, sinking them into the middle of the feather mattress, the downy quilts settling and cushioning like clouds around them. His hands went back to her wrists, and he pulled her arms above her head, pinning her down as he pushed against her, parting her thighs. His lips continued their frenetic rhythm against hers until he suddenly withdrew them, panting for air.

For a moment, all she could hear was his breathing and her own heart beating in her ears. Then she realized he was speaking lowly to her. He was asking her something. He was begging her.

"Yes," she told him, realizing what he was wanting from her. She whispered again, "Yes."

One of his hands locked her wrists together, while the other slid down to her silk dressing gown. He was so fast at removing the ties that she gasped when she suddenly felt the cool air on her breasts. He buried his head there while his hand moved to lift her lace night dress. His hand slid over her leg and then quickly ascended her thigh. There was no going slowly this time. There was no hesitation from him. She had already given her consent, and he was not waiting. His fingers found her core, and she would have moaned if his lips had not found hers again. His movements were quick this time, and the shock of his touch washed over Christine in a rushing tide. He pulled slightly away as her body shuddered, and then he was inside of her. He did not wait this time before rocking against her, moving at a frantic pace that only increased in a wild and untamed rhythm between them. He was not holding back; there was no fear this time. There was only the touch of him, the taste of him, as Erik finally let go of her wrists as he held her closer and she grasped onto him, winding her arms around him to bring him down as her fingers dug into his shirt. They were both still half-clothed, but it didn't matter. The need to be fulfilled by the other was too great for either of them to stop now. Their passion was building to a near pitch perfect level; Christine thought her emotions may burst into a cloud of confetti to spin shiny stars down around them. A moment later, she felt Erik go as he buried himself deep within her. His weight settled upon her in one long, heavy motion as he collapsed against her, his breathing broken and uneven against her ear.

Her heart pounding, Christine tried to catch her breath. Erik lay still for a few moments, then he withdrew from her, muttering an apology. To her dismay, he pulled away completely and left her. Her arms fell empty to the bed as the cool air rushed over her again with the sudden absence of his body shielding her own. She shivered and turned over. Her night dress was twisted around her waist, making it difficult for her to move with any fluidity.

"Erik?" she called tentatively. When there was no answer, fear gripped her heart. "Erik?"

"I am here," he called quietly.

She did not like the tone of his voice. Was it regret she heard? Or pain? He sounded like he was near the window. If she had not called out to him, would he have left the room and retreated to the cold garden alone? She was afraid to know the answer to that question, so she swept it aside, like dust under a rug.

Slowly, she sat up. Her legs felt like jelly, but she managed to stand on her own. She straightened her night dress and fastened the ties of the dressing gown hastily. She went over to the table next to the head of the bed. She did not care if he protested; she wanted to see him. She needed to know this entire night had not been a dream, conjured by her wild imagination. She put the lamp on low and turned to look for him in the glowing yellow light.

She was wrong. He was not by the window. He was standing in front of the mirror, and his mask was in his hand.

Erik was staring at his reflection, not with self-loathing, as she had seen him do before, but with curiosity. There were questions in his eyes. He was contemplating something. His eyes were thoughtful, but his face was twisted in agony.

Concerned, Christine crossed the room and touched him lightly. She thought he might flinch away from her, but he did not. Instead, he turned and gathered her into his arms, the mask still in his hand. His grip was firm, and his head came down to rest upon hers.

"I am sorry. Forgive me, please. Forgive me," he pleaded to her softly.

She was confused. Why was he apologizing?

"I don't understand," she whispered. She held him tightly in return. "Please tell me what is wrong."

"Wrong? Wrong?" his voice cracked unexpectedly. She didn't know if he meant to laugh or cry. Instead, he said in a serious tone, "None of this has happened the way I would have wished it. I would not have planned any of it this way. You must believe me. Oh, Christine…"

His words were lost as he nuzzled against her hair. Then, he was kissing the top of her head. His lips trailed down and settled on her forehead. He brought her closer, embracing her with a ferocity that surprised her, when not moments before, he had withdrawn from her completely.

"What do you mean?" she asked him, bewildered.

"I mean, I used you ill just now," he said regretfully. "And I must apologize for it."

He pulled away from her slightly, but she held onto him, determined to silence his doubts.

"No, you're wrong. I wanted it, too. Don't you see—" she tried to protest, but he quieted her with a single finger to her lips.

"No, I lost control. I, who have kept _this_ …" he gestured at himself, his hand sweeping to his chest, "this desire in me in check for so long… I—I could not—"

She tried to interrupt again, but he stopped her once more.

"No, you must understand. I cannot justify my behavior to you, but you should know this—this need I have for you. It is strong. Stronger than my will, stronger than my control. But I promise you, I would not have it be this way!" His hand swept outward and he sounded angry, but his anger was directed at himself. "Do you think I want us to be sneaking around in the dark? Hiding from all the world? I am stealing—yes, stealing—these moments from you! I was not thinking of your comfort, your needs, just now… I was not thinking at all!"

"Erik, it was beautiful! No, wait, please listen to me," she said, preventing him from pulling away from her. She would not let him retreat from her now. "There was nothing wrong with what happened between us. I made the choice to stay with you, to be with you. I am here, and I am not going anywhere."

"But it is not right! It is not what you deserve. This is not how it should be!"

If the household wasn't awake before, then surely, they would be awake now. Erik's voice was booming, echoing off the walls of the little bedroom. He seemed to no longer care about keeping quiet. She was suddenly fearful of what might happen if someone did walk in on them. Christine listened, expecting to hear footsteps coming down the hallway, but only silence met his words. She couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief. If anyone had heard, a wise decision had been made not to interrupt them.

"Then, how should it be?" she questioned him after a moment, trying to understand where his despair and self-doubt were coming from when not ten minutes ago, he had lain passionately in her arms.

"I wanted you to make a _legal_ choice. I intended to make you my bride before any of this happened! But I was a fool to hope for such a thing!" he exclaimed with deep sorrow. "I have nothing to give to you! Nothing but a life on the run, a life in hiding. Nothing but darkness and despair. Nothing but tears. It would not be a proper life. I was a fool to hope for it! I have been nothing but a fool."

She grasped his arms, trying to get him to look at her, but he turned his face away.

"You have yourself to give to me," she protested. "You have your love. Is that not enough? It is enough for me. Erik, I swear it! It is enough!"

"You deserve more than this," he repeated, his head down. "You are giving yourself, and I am taking. I am selfishly taking it all! You should send me away. You should tell me to go."

"No," she told him firmly. "No, I want you to stay. Please stay."

Christine feared this was a battle she would constantly have to wage with Erik. And she needed to be strong. She must show him that he was worthy of her love. She would have to remind him how much she cared.

He regarded his reflection in the mirror again, frowning, his eyes fixed on his face. She watched the play of emotions there, but she could not read his expressions. She could not tell what he was thinking. It disturbed her to know that she may never truly understand how his deformity affected his mind, how it twisted and molded him as a man.

"Erik, come away," she begged him. She tugged on his arm, but he would not budge. He was like a boulder standing there, immovable and resolute. He refused to look at her. Resignedly, she reached up and placed her hand tenderly on his ruined cheek. " _This_ doesn't matter to me. This face… this face is not who you are… You must believe that."

She moved her hand down to his chest over his heart as she had done before they had made love for the first time.

"This— _this_ is what matters! Your heart," she told him. Before he could shake his head to deny her words, she added, "Your heart is beautiful, Erik."

The hand gripping the mask was shaking, but his free hand moved to cover hers before his eyes drifted closed. She hoped he was hearing her. She hoped he would listen. And she would keep trying until he did—forever, if need be; yes, she vowed that night she would keep trying.

They stayed still for a few moments before his hand dropped away from hers. She let her own fall when he would not open his eyes. Not wanting him to descend into further despair, she hastily untied and pulled off her dressing gown, placing it over the mirror. She tugged on his hand, intending to lead him away from it and the dark thoughts it was conjuring in him.

"Erik, please."

The clock on the dresser chimed a melody. His eyes flew open, and they both turned to look at it. The night was wearing thin; it would be morning soon.

"I made that clock," said Erik suddenly, distracted by the music. He turned away from the mirror, and Christine sighed in relief, following him as he led her away from it. He stopped in front of the dresser, staring at the clock with an odd expression on his face.

"You made it?" she asked, surprised. She had not expected that.

"Yes. Many years ago," he confirmed calmly. All trace of his former distress was gone, but she knew he was good at hiding it well. She guessed it sat somewhere beneath the surface of his stillness. His voice took on a distant quality, as if he were remembering something, when he continued, "I used to dismantle my mother's clocks. It made her very angry, but I was determined."

Erik rarely spoke of his past or provided details from his youth. She had only heard him speak of his mother once. He had said that she had loathed him. What a horrible thing! For a mother to fear her own child to the point of revulsion, to have driven him away from his own home! Christine could not imagine such a thing! It hurt her heart to think of it.

"You were determined to know how they worked?" she questioned, trying to picture him as an inquisitive child yearning to understand the common, everyday objects around him. Never once had she wondered how a clock told the time. She had simply taken for granted that it did. It never would have occurred to her to try to take one apart just to learn about it. For a moment, she envied the inner workings of Erik's brilliant mind.

"That and I liked to get a rise out of my mother. She had a spectacular temper. I daresay I get that from her," he said honestly. He gave a wry smile, his lips pulled into a tight line. "Her anger was better than her silence. I would not allow her to ignore me."

The thought of Erik as a neglected child, begging for his mother's love and attention, only to receive her wrath in return, saddened Christine. She realized how lucky she had been to have had her father. What would she have done had a parent hated her? How would it have influenced and changed her as a child, as an adult, as a human being?

Erik slid one finger along the edge of the dresser near the clock. A layer of gray dust appeared on his fingertip. "It's nice to know my treasure holds such a place of honor in Garnier's home. I'll have to thank him when next I see him. This room hasn't been properly cleaned in years."

His sarcasm was thick, but there was also a touch of something else in his tone. Was he hurt the clock was sitting in a room hardly used or merely annoyed that Garnier had placed it there? She thought she was beginning to better understand why it always upset him to see beautiful things abandoned or misused.

"Can you tell me what it means? Who is she?" she asked, pointing to the bronze woman on the clock. "I was wondering about it earlier. Is there a story behind her tears?"

Erik paused, then said, "I will tell you the tale another time. I promise, but for now…" He set the mask on the dresser near the clock, then turned to her, his hand in hers. "Shall we go to bed? You need your rest."

He led her over to the lamp.

"And what of you?" she asked him.

"I rarely sleep," he replied, dimming the light before finally extinguishing it. They were once again surrounded by the night, but this time Christine found she didn't mind so much.

She knew Erik slept very little, and yet, it had been a long night. Wasn't he tired at all? Still, if he was going to stay awake, then she would try to as well. She sat down on the bed as he went around to the other side. She heard smooth, almost imperceptible, sounds from him before he rested on the pillow next to her. She stared in his direction for a few minutes.

"Go to sleep, Christine," he commanded quietly, yet she could hear the small smile in his voice.

An idea struck her, as she lay beside him, but she wondered if he would allow it? She hesitated, trying to discern his shadow, but saw nothing in the dark. She propped her arm up on her pillow and rested her head against it.

"Your thoughts are so loud, they are invading my space. You have a question to ask, so just ask it," said Erik with dry humor.

Christine's arm dropped to the bedspread, her chin falling with it. Exasperated, she asked, "How is it you always know what I am thinking?"

She had wondered about this before but had never dared to ask him.

"You are very easy to read," he said after a moment. His hand found hers in the dark. He traced light circles on her palm.

"And why do you think that is?" she wondered. She didn't think it was fair that his mind was an impregnable fortress to her, but hers was an open book to him.

"Hmm," he muttered, but didn't reply. Finally, he said, "Ask your question, Christine."

She allowed him to change the subject for she was suddenly feeling determined. A bubbling excitement grew in her; she was sure he could feel it, too. "Will you let me do something for you?"

"What is that?" he asked skeptically after a pause. His fingers, which had been dancing on her palm, disappeared.

She hesitated, then finally asked as steadily as she could manage, "Will you let me hold you?"

As much as she wanted him to hold her, she felt he needed the comfort and reassurance of her arms right now, something solid and real to show him how much she cared for him. His mother had never held him, never loved him, but she wanted him to see that she was not like his mother.

There was a long silence from Erik. Had he heard her? Or was he ignoring her? She knew he wasn't sleeping.

"You are a curious being, Christine Daaé," he said at last.

Was that his consent? She wasn't sure, but she held out her arms in the dark hoping he would find her.

Eventually, she felt him as he tentatively came closer to her, then rested his head gently against her chest. One arm came over her waist as he settled against her. She knew he was uncomfortable, but she felt him relax after a time as her arms came around him and she held him tenderly to her. She moved her hands soothingly up and down his back, rubbing him in a way that she hoped he found comforting.

"Is this all right?" she asked him, and she felt him slowly nod against her.

A long time passed in silence. She realized at one point his shoulders were shaking. Then she felt the damp tears soaking her gown. He tried to roll away from her, but she would not allow it. She only grasped him tighter and requested he stay with her. Eventually, his breathing slowed. She never knew if he slept or not, but she stayed wide awake holding him for a long while that night.

Later, sometime before the dawn, she felt Erik rise, his face close to hers, his lips a breath away.

"I love you," he whispered in his melodious voice. And then he repeated the words until they were almost a song in her ears. He kissed her gently, and his lips moved as light as a butterfly's wings against her: over her cheek, near her earlobe, along her jawline, and fluttered down over her neck.

His hands moved like silk over her skin, lightly, reverently, as if he were memorizing her form, committing every curve to his conscious thoughts. He did not leave any part of her untouched. His hands and his lips were everywhere.

Somewhere along the way, all clothing was lost, billowing to the floor without second thought. All coherent words were lost with them.

Her body felt like molten gold beneath his touch. His caressing hands curved up and down her sides, over her hips, across her belly, creating languid circles over her skin. When his tongue tasted her, she couldn't help but cry out. She didn't care if anyone heard her. Her blood ran hot in her veins. She was melting beneath him, slick and ready from the fever heat of his ministrations. At some point, she heard herself begging him to take her.

This time when he eased into her, it was with slow and loving strokes. He whispered beautiful sounds in her ear. His hands intertwined with hers. He made her the center of his universe; and nothing existed outside of their world. Nothing mattered except Erik.

In the morning, she would tell him; she vowed that she would. She would say how much she loved him. Why had she not told him this before? Why had she been holding back? Well, nothing was holding her back now. She would vow to marry him, even if they had to wait. She would wait for him forever. She would follow him anywhere. She swore it to the night air, her thoughts floating and drifting away as she descended into ecstasy with him.

Yes, she would tell Erik everything in the morning.


	10. Chapter 10 - Lost and Gone

**Chapter 10 – Lost and Gone**

" _I loved you!"_

Christine's voice sounded like an accusation instead of a declaration as she flung her words at Erik across the beautiful hotel suite on Coney Island. If her cry had been something tangible, a glass vase thrown in anguish, it would have sailed over to Erik and shattered at his feet, much as her heart had done, into a million tiny little pieces. Ten years of separation, of silence and sadness, stood between them now. Reliving that night with him had been agonizing, a mix of remembered bliss and distant sorrow. Their reminiscing had brought them closer together physically as they had spoken, but now she stood across the room from him. The air was thick and full of tension, a barrier as solid and substantial as the missing years that had materialized between them.

Erik was staring at her aghast, disbelieving her words, his eyes tormented. He spun around on the piano bench where he was sitting to face her fully.

" _Yes, I loved you!"_ she declared again with vehemence. Her broken heart, fragmented and fragile, was raw and exposed before him, but she let him see it all. She was not holding anything back from him.

There! She had said it—twice! He had never given her the chance to say it then, so she would say it now. The words which had been bottled up inside of her for so long were bursting out in an angry torrent. It was a relief to finally say them aloud.

Christine was fully aware she had spoken in the past tense. Erik did not miss that subtle distinction either, for he appeared miserable; his shoulders were hunching up and down, and his lips let out a soft sob. Christine's heart clenched, and her eyes closed as she clutched her fist against her chest. Oh, this was going to be a difficult conversation!

"I would have followed you anywhere," she admitted, her voice resonant, sounding stronger than she felt as she opened her eyes. She was no longer a young girl, hesitant and shy with her feelings. She was a woman and a mother; and she had lived through ten years without him. She wanted him to feel her pain. She wanted him to know what it had been like for her after he had left her. Her arms flew outward as if to embrace him or shake him into understanding; her conflicting emotions wanted to do both.

He was crying, murmuring an apology. His hands were shaking as they rested against his knees.

"When I woke and found myself alone—" she broke off, tears threatening her own eyes. She did not want him to see her tears, though she had cried buckets of them, and yet she wanted him to know the truth. She wanted to know _why_. Why had he been so cruel? Why had he left her when she had needed him most?

He moaned, once more the broken man in the bowels of the Opera House, pleading with her to understand his sorrow. But she could not hear him, not when her own sadness weighed so heavily upon her.

"How could you?" she asked, her eyes fixed steadily on him. She wanted to know what he had to say in his defense. "I was ready to be with you at last."

"How could I have stayed?" he countered, head down, voice cracking. He would not meet her gaze. "How could I have shackled you to me? There were reasons. You know there were."

"No, I don't know!" she exclaimed with feeling. What reasons could justify what he had done?

"I was a wanted man!" he answered, crying out to her in anguish. "I had to go. You know I did."

One of his hands hovered over his eyes, as if to block her out of his line of vision or cover himself up; perhaps both. That one gesture made her feel a hint of regret, but her anger, still so close to the surface, won out. Hiding—he was always hiding from her!

"You do not know the shame I felt that night, leaving as I did. But I could not have borne the hatred in your eyes, had I returned after—" his words stopped with another soft sob. He looked at her pleadingly.

She took one small step closer to him. "Returned?" she asked, surprised. What was he saying?

"Yes, I had planned on returning to you. I had every intention of coming back. Did you not know? Could you not guess? After everything that happened, did you really think I would have abandoned you so easily?" he asked, and he met her gaze at last.

She immediately turned away, unable to endure the pain in his voice and the heat emanating from his golden eyes, reminding her again of their night together.

He suddenly stood and strode over to her. She could hear his light footfalls behind her on the plush carpet. Tentatively, he put his hands on her shoulders and turned her around to face him. He dropped his hands quickly, wringing them together desperately, when he saw her eyes reproaching him.

"I will explain everything, but I cannot bear to lose you again. Not now," he declared, and she saw a hint of the Phantom she had known, the man who would not accept anything less than what he desired.

But what did she want?

She stared at him a moment, her heart constricting into a tight ball in her chest. Facing him like this was unbearable. After years of believing he was dead, to have him standing before her, a living, breathing man, was like every shadow from her past, every feeling which she thought had been lost to her, had leapt back to life. Every emotion from her time with him was surfacing at once, and it was overwhelming. She knew one thing; she could not handle the pain. She had numbed herself of it; she could not feel it again. It would break whatever was left of all she had been holding together over their long years apart.

"Now? _How can you talk of now?"_ she asked, her words sounding too harsh and high pitched in her ears. She would not go through this with him. What could he say that would change anything? She did not want to speak the words running through her mind; she knew they would hurt him, but she had to tell him the truth. She closed her eyes as a single tear ran down her cheek to rest on her blood red lips.

But then, an image came to her, unbidden and crystal clear, of a rose she had once seen—a red rose entwined with a white one, and she could hear a distant melody. She felt a moment of clarity, of harmony in the music which resonated true between them, like a church bell she had once heard ringing sweetly in her ears.

She opened her eyes a second later, taking a deep breath as she did so, unable to express the words which were lost and gone like the flicker of a flame. Her heart would not allow her to speak them.

As though he had read her mind, Erik looked devastated and unwilling to accept whatever he guessed she had meant to say. She would lose her resolve if she continued to meet that mournful gaze, so she forced her rigid limbs, still numb from the shock of seeing him, over to the open balcony doors and walked through them into the night air. Without looking back, she knew he had followed her.

The air was warm, but she felt cold as she gripped the balcony railing, staring blindly at the lights of the island below them. Her vision clouded as her memories invaded her mind.

"Do you know what it was like for me after you left?" she asked him quietly, her words a whisper in the wind.

He put his hands on her shoulders, lightly touching the edges of her lace gown where it met her skin, and she shuddered.

"Tell me," he said, his hands dropping away.

It felt as though his fingers had burned her where they had touched her briefly, and she moved away from him. As she did so, she heard a light chiming music, drifting through the air from below. Whether it was real or imagined, she didn't know, but it made her remember so many things she thought she had forgotten, so many things she had repressed for ten years. Her thoughts wandered away from the balcony, floating through the clouds of time to that morning when her life was changed forever, altered inexplicably from the sudden absence of Erik in her life.

* * *

The clock on the dresser chimed the hour. Christine was vaguely aware of it as she stretched and turned over, a smile on her face. She instinctively reached for Erik, her hand moving across the blanket beside her. She expected to touch his solid frame, lean and hard beneath her fingers, but instead her hand hit empty air as she swept it across the downy comforter to the pillow near her head. She opened her eyes in surprise. The shock of the sunlight streaming through the windows blinded her for a moment. She raised her palm to block it out, but a few rays seeped through the small gaps in her fingers. When her eyes could focus again, she saw the place where Erik had rested the previous night was empty.

She sat up in bed, glancing around the room. Rising in haste, she quickly moved over to the mirror and pulled the dressing gown from it, wrapping it around her. The window opposite the mirror, which had stood open all night, was closed and latched. She strode over to it, unfastened and flung it open. Despite the sun overhead, the air was cold. Its dull rays provided no warmth as she leaned over the windowsill and glanced out at the garden. From this vantage point, in the light of day, she could see it was empty. She ducked back into the room, but left the window open, in case of Erik's return.

As she turned to look at the clock, she felt a sense of déjà vu. It was midday. She had slept away the morning. As she studied the hands on the clock, something caught her attention lying innocuously beside it. She moved over to the dresser in surprise.

In the place where Erik's mask had rested the night before was a note. Sitting atop the note were two roses—one red and one white. Their stems were lightly intertwined. The mask was gone, as was the dust from the dresser. The surface of the wood and the gold of the clock gleamed in the morning sunlight.

Christine picked up the roses and held them to her nose. The red rose was fragrant, heady with a musky undertone. The white rose smelled sweet. Smiling, she returned her attention to the note. It contained four words in red ink with his initial scrawled underneath:

 _Christine, I love you._

– _E_

Before she could ponder the note, she heard a light knock on the door.

"Come in," called Christine, setting the roses and the note aside. As she did so, she nicked her thumb on the red rose, and a thorn pierced her skin. A single drop of her blood fell on the note directly below Erik's words to her. She gasped and placed her thumb in her mouth, sucking on the small, stinging wound. She turned to face the visitor who was now opening the door.

It was Henrietta, the timid maid from the night before, hastening into the room. She gave Christine a slight curtsy and bobbed her head, though she did not look her in the eye. Christine was startled at the small acknowledgement, when last night the girl had treated her as though she had barely existed.

The maid flitted around the room like a tiny fairy, and Christine was taken aback at how efficient she was, as the bed was made in seconds. She did not go near the dresser with the clock. She retreated into the washroom and then reappeared with the lace night dress and a few other items in her arms. Christine distinctly remembered Erik removing the gown and tossing it to the floor, and she blushed. How had it gotten in the washroom? Had he hung it there?

"Madame," the girl muttered. Before Christine could correct her, she curtsied again and exited the room.

As Christine moved around the side of the bed, she noticed the maid had placed a small, silver tray with an envelope on the little table by the lamp. She hastily picked it up, expecting the message to be from Erik, but instead she saw it was from Madame Garnier, inviting her to tea.

She was being summoned. Christine glanced at the clock. She had just enough time to wash and dress before joining the lady of the house in the parlor as requested. She had only her black dress and ragged petticoat, hardly proper attire to take afternoon tea, but she would try to make herself presentable. The maid had not taken her clothes for laundering, no doubt wishing her duties complete for her master's unwelcome guests. Christine wished she had something better to wear, but she had no other alternative.

Moving over to the mirror, she smoothed her hair, trying not to think of how Erik had stood the night before, gazing into it thoughtfully, as though he wanted to step through it into another world, a better world perhaps, or contrastingly break the surface. She hastened through her toilette in the washroom and dressed as quickly as she could manage.

Before she left the room, she went over to the window and looked out again. Her eyes searched every flower bush, thinking maybe she had missed something—some sign of Erik—but she saw nothing. The clouds were gathering overhead, and the rays that had shone mere minutes ago were gone; the garden was descending into shadow. She glanced at the bench, thinking of the carved words on its stone surface and Erik reciting them with meaning. A sudden sadness came over her, but she held back her tears.

Erik would return. Surely, he would! And she would be there when he did.

She left the window open, glancing one more time at the clock and the roses. She had hidden the note in her reticule, where it would be safe from prying eyes. She turned to the door, taking a deep breath to steady herself, and placed her hand on the knob, prepared to descend downstairs to meet whatever fate had in store for her.

* * *

The parlor in Garnier's house was blue: blue walls, blue curtains, blue rugs on the floor. The chairs and settee were covered in fabric of deep azure. There was a lovely piano in one corner of the room draped in a covering the color of midnight. There was something lonely about the instrument, as though it had not been played in a very long time. The dead petals of flowers long past bloom, lilies perhaps, covered its surface. The blue urn sitting atop the piano held fresh flowers, roses and anemones of deep pink and purple hues, but the fallen petals of previous buds had not been swept away. Like the clock upstairs, the petals seemed to have been left there, purposely untouched. She had the feeling Erik would have been angry to see the fine piano in such a state of neglect. In fact, the whole room had a somber air to it. The atmosphere was stuffy, as though the windows were never opened. Under other circumstances, Christine would have thought the parlor was pretty, refined like the rest of the house, but as she joined Madame Garnier and her companion at the little table by the window, she found it oppressive and gloomy. Without Erik, she was an unwelcome stranger in an unfamiliar house, thrown to the mercy of the wolves who had their teeth bared before her. She instantly knew, as she surveyed the two women, this was not going to be a pleasant conversation.

"My dear," the first woman addressed Christine. She could only suppose this was her hostess, Madame Garnier. "You look positively dreadful."

Christine managed half a smile in return but said nothing. The woman had a commanding air, shrewd eyes, and an unforgiving frown, but her manner was polite. Though they had never been introduced, Madame Garnier was feigning their acquaintance rather well, as she murmured a few pleasantries. She was well-dressed in her linen and lace of plain gray. Her brown curls were immaculately shaped, molded and pinned to her head with perfection. Christine guessed the woman had been handsome in her youth, but there was a stiff coldness about her now, particularly in her posture and the forced manner of her movements. This woman was clearly unhappy; her expression was as impassive as stone. Christine had seen similar façades on the faces of the upper-class wives who accompanied their husbands to the Opera. Such put-on politeness and false courtesy were not hard to spot.

Perhaps this pretense was for the benefit of the other woman at the table, who was staring at Christine with piercing eyes and a crooked grin, as though she knew something Christine did not. It made her uneasy. The woman's frizzy red hair was peeking from beneath the ugliest brown bonnet she had ever seen, and her starched collar was buttoned high. This woman, like Madame Garnier, would not be a sympathetic soul. Christine would have to keep her wits about her. Who knows what Monsieur Garnier had told his wife?

"This is Madame Cassel, our neighbor," introduced Madame Garnier.

Christine nodded at the woman, whose unfriendly gaze was making her nervous.

"Madame Cassel, may I present Madame Leroux," the hostess proclaimed, and Christine turned to her, startled. She stared at the two women in puzzlement but felt it might be in her detriment to correct her. Instead, she merely forced a smile of acknowledgement.

"I must say, Madame Leroux, you are much younger and more beautiful than I expected, despite your unfortunate attire," said Madame Cassel, her eyes peering up and down at Christine. She did not know whether to be flattered or insulted by the brazen woman's comments. The lady continued, "When your husband arrived so unexpectedly this morning, one didn't know quite what to think, you understand."

Christine glanced at her in surprise, "My… husband?"

The woman had said the word "husband" as though the devil himself had arrived at her door.

"Yes, when Monsieur Leroux asked to speak to my husband on business at such an irregular hour—why it was virtually the crack of dawn—one could only assume he had mischief on his mind. It was highly improper, of course, but he was so… _insistent_ ," Madame Cassel sneered in Madame Garnier's direction, who smirked back, then returned her attention to Christine. "Of course, my husband was very accommodating. That's to be expected, given Monsieur Garnier's reference. But really, Madame, how did you ever manage such a… uh… _man_?"

Christine regarded one woman and then the other, bewildered. They were obviously speaking of Erik, but beneath Madame Cassel's polite veneer was an undertone of mocking disgust. It angered Christine, but she tried not to show it. What had Erik done this morning, and why? And who exactly was Madame Cassel's husband?

"My dear, we pity you really," said Madame Garnier, placing a hand on Christine's sleeve. The woman's fingers were like claws, sharp and stinging. She wanted to pull her arm away but refrained herself.

"Yes, indeed. Poor girl," agreed Madame Cassel, though her tone of voice contradicted her words. She rather sounded like she was enjoying herself.

"Of course, Monsieur Garnier should not even be involved, but I could not deter him," said the lady of the house, removing her hand from Christine to place her napkin in her lap just as her servant arrived to pour the tea. The man slipped easily around the table before retreating again, giving Christine a pitying look when she nodded her thanks at him. Just as he backed away from the table, he tripped lightly near Madame Cassel, and the tray he was carrying tipped precariously. Christine moved her hand to warn him, but it was too late. The silver tray bounced off the edge of the table and fell with a clatter to the floor. Luckily, he had set the pot of tea on the table. Other than the tray, only a few linen napkins had fallen with it. Christine immediately moved to assist him, not thinking or caring that her behavior was improper. The other ladies treated the man as though he was invisible, like nothing at all had happened. Or at least, Christine thought that was the case, until Madame Cassel nodded at her disapprovingly.

"Really, girl, let the man do his job, if he is capable of doing it at all, that is," said the woman rudely.

Madame Garnier gave a little laugh as she dabbed the corners of her lips with her handkerchief.

Christine glanced at the man in apology and handed him the linen at her feet as he gratefully nodded in return. She took her seat at the table again, frowning. There had been few other instances in her life when she had felt so uncomfortable.

"I told you, you should have listened to _my_ recommendation, Louise, instead of hiring that boy," said Madame Cassel, her screechy voice grating on Christine's nerves.

 _That boy_ was still standing in the same room as them. After righting the tray, he had moved to stand by the window, his shoulders and head held back with dignity, though there was clearly a pained expression in his eyes.

"I know, but my husband insisted, and you know how hard it is for me to go against his wishes. I do wonder at his judgment sometimes, but I'm afraid there's nothing to be done but garnish the boy's wages for the day," she replied lightly, as though this fact was nothing important.

Christine gasped. While she knew this was common behavior, even in bourgeois households such as this, she felt it was incredibly rude of the mistress of the house to act so callously to one of her staff, and right in front of the man! If she were ever in such a position, Christine knew she would not treat others with such disrespect, no matter their station in life. She had come from humble beginnings herself, and she could not, nor did she wish to, forget it.

"When my husband gets a notion into his head…" continued Madame Garnier until her voice trailed off with a heavy sigh. She shook her head slightly and rolled her eyes. Then, she added to Christine, "My husband feels he owes a great deal to your husband, Madame, though goodness knows why. When they parted ways years ago, that should have been the end of it. But my husband has always been an honorable man. If he feels he owes a debt, he will repay it."

Christine swallowed uncomfortably. "Of course," she muttered. She didn't know what else to say. All she wanted was to escape the room, but the woman's words were practically binding her to her chair. She felt trapped with nowhere to go until Erik returned to the house.

"Of course, I'm not blaming you, my dear," added Madame Garnier.

"Who could blame such a sweet and innocent girl?" agreed Madame Cassel, with a layer of venom that shocked Christine. She had not heard such a biting tone since La Carlotta had insulted her during rehearsals at the Opera. She wondered if the two women knew each other. They were surprisingly alike.

"But at least, my dear, now you will be free," said Madame Garnier matter-of-factly, sipping her tea and showing no shred of emotion as she gazed at Christine over her cup.

"Free?" echoed Christine, her unease building.

"Why, of course," replied Madame Garnier calmly.

"You really did not think my husband would agree to such a scheme?" asked Madame Cassel incredulously. "He is a man of the law!"

Christine sat up straighter, glancing from one woman to the other, suddenly alarmed. "What do you mean?"

"She means, of course, my dear," explained Madame Garnier, "that Inspector Cassel has arrested your husband."

Christine felt a funny jab in her chest and for a moment, she could not breathe. Erik arrested? And Madame Cassel's husband was a police inspector? What had he done?

She stood up, backing away from the table, her tea spilling on the blue linen tablecloth in the process. The servant moved to assist her, but she waved him off, afraid to involve him further. The others were already angry at him. She did not want to drag the poor man into her affairs.

"Do not be so alarmed," said Madame Garnier coolly. "I'm sure it was to be expected, given the circumstances."

The woman sipped her tea as though Christine was not standing before her in distress.

"And now you will be rid of him," added Madame Cassel, cackling slightly. "You should be thanking my husband."

She looked at the two women, both of their expressions cold, and then glanced at the servant again. His eyes were full of sympathy, but his sad gaze was almost worse than the icy sneers of the women. It threatened the tears that were lurking behind her eyes.

"Excuse me," Christine managed to mumble before she turned to flee from the room.

Just as she reached the door, she heard Madame Garnier give a dramatic sigh, "Poor dear. _He_ has obviously bewitched the girl."

"Yes, I feel quite sorry for her," said the other woman, though she didn't sound sorry at all. In fact, the woman laughed outright.

Christine ran, intending to return upstairs to collect her cloak and reticule and leave this dreadful house. She must find Erik! He could be in danger! But when Monsieur Garnier appeared in the doorway of his study, his hand hanging in mid-air to stop her, she abruptly halted her retreat.

"Mademoiselle," he said quietly, but firmly. His lips were turned down in a frown. "A word, if you please."

She stared at Garnier in distrust, but his gaze was clear and calm, despite his sagging face. He beckoned her forward, then turned back into his study, not waiting to see if she would follow him.

She stood in indecision, her hand glued to the staircase railing. What harm could it do to talk with him? Maybe he had information about Erik, useful information. Surely, he would not treat her as his wife had a moment ago?

Reluctantly, Christine turned and entered the small study as she had done the night before with Erik. Without him, the room was airless and stuffy, much like the parlor had been. Garnier gestured for her to sit in one of the chairs opposite his desk. She obeyed silently, though a part of her wanted to dispense with the social etiquette entirely. She hoped Garnier would leave the pleasantries and get to the point, for she was holding back what she truly wanted to say, and she had so many questions for him.

Garnier folded his hands in front of him on his desk, looking very serious indeed. After some silence, he announced, "I have news."

Christine swallowed a lump in her throat, and no longer able to contain herself, blurted, "Erik has been arrested!"

Garnier scowled. "My wife should not have told you that."

"She said my _husband_ went to see Inspector Cassel this morning?" Christine could not keep the concern, nor the question about why Madame Garnier had presumed she was married, out of her voice.

"Ah, yes… your husband," said Garnier with a hint of regret. "I had to tell Louise something. I warned Erik about being discreet."

Christine blushed. What exactly had the other couple heard last night? At the time, she had not really thought on it, nor had she cared. All that had mattered was Erik and their time together. But with Garnier sitting so sternly across from her, as though he were her strict uncle chiding her for her wrong-doing, she only felt embarrassed.

Sensing this, Garnier waved his hand dismissively. "Never mind that now. It's no matter."

Christine was grateful for the change of subject and nodded her thanks at him for making excuses to his prickly wife. How worse would her conversation with the women have been if they had known she was not, in fact, married? Would Madame Garnier have thrown her out on the street?

Breaking her thoughts, Monsieur Garnier cleared his throat and continued, "I promised Erik I would be forthright with you. Indeed, Erik did pay a visit to my neighbor and friend, Inspector Cassel. The reason I am stressing the inspector is my friend, and an honorable man at that, is because I do not wish you to think I betrayed Erik's trust, for I did not."

Christine frowned, trying to digest this information. "Why would Erik seek out the inspector? Why would he do such a thing?" she wondered aloud.

At this, Garnier's disposition changed. He gazed at her with pity, gesturing in her direction with an odd flick of his wrist before folding his hands together again. "For you, mademoiselle. It was entirely for your benefit."

This surprised Christine. "For me?" she asked skeptically.

"Yes," he said seriously, "for whatever you may believe, and I do not pretend to know the extent of your… _acquaintance_ with Erik, you must know he meant to do right by you. I believe he was trying to do the respectable thing. Last night, he pleaded with me for a reference, and I have never seen that man beg for anything. He wanted to strike a deal with Inspector Cassel, thereby freeing himself and, by all rights, freeing you as well, from the pursuit of the law in order to marry you."

"A deal? What kind of deal?" asked Christine cautiously, staring at him in shock.

Could this be true? Would Erik really be willing to risk himself in such a way? She could scarcely believe he would go to such lengths just to marry her. She had assumed they would simply flee together, and whatever arrangements Erik had made consisted of running away from the chaos that had ensued since the performance of _Don Juan Triumphant_. She did not think he would stay and face his enemies, who would condemn him for his actions. But Erik's words from the previous night haunted her mind. He did not want a life on the run, a life he thought would be unsafe for her, a life he had described as not a "proper life" at all. He wanted them to be free; had he not said as much when he had stood gazing into the mirror? But what had he promised to ensure such a thing? She was certain she was not going to like whatever bargain Erik thought he must make with the inspector in order to gain that freedom.

Garnier paused, then said slowly, enunciating each word plainly for her, "Erik would ensure the Opera Ghost disappeared forever."

He watched her as she absorbed this knowledge.

"In exchange for what?" she asked warily. But she wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer.

"That I do not know," said Garnier, raising up his hands. "You know Erik. He never reveals his plans all at once. I'm guessing he has some intelligence on the inspector, or he would not have inquired about him. Inspector Cassel has a number of secrets, but even I do not know the extent of them."

"You think Erik tried to bribe him?" she guessed.

"I think Erik was prepared to give the inspector a very _generous_ offer, one the man could not refuse," said Garnier, looking grim.

This worried Christine. Had he tried to buy their freedom only to bind himself to other chains?

"So, what happened? Why was he arrested?" she asked. Something had obviously gone wrong, or Erik would be here now; she was sure of it!

"That I cannot say. Madame Cassel said there was a disagreement between the two men. Unfortunately, she is privy to much of the inspector's business, nosy busybody that she is," said Garnier with a huff, and Christine stifled a small laugh as his face turned serious again. "Given Erik's temper, it's a wonder the inspector is still alive. Pardon me, mademoiselle, but I'm assuming you know Erik's disposition, or you would not be here. But I tell you, I have never seen a man as desperate as Erik when he spoke with me last night. You must understand, he was determined. No matter his methods, I do believe he wanted what was best for you."

Garnier spoke as though everything Erik had done had been for her benefit, but was that really the case? Had he really done this just so they could be wed? Or had he merely acted to save his own skin? Erik had survived on his own for many, many years, without the added difficulty of another person in his life. Had she become a complication to him, a disruption to his previous plans when she had shown up so unexpectedly at the cemetery last night? She didn't know what to believe. Without him at her side, her doubts were sprouting like weeds, threatening the tender garden of their newfound love for each other. She had not known those strangling vines existed until Erik was no longer there to tend to them with his affection and reassurance.

"And where is he now?" she asked quietly. She was dreading where this conversation was headed.

Garnier did not respond at first. He glanced down at his desk as if the papers before him were suddenly more interesting than his conversation with her. After a while, he looked up again, and his eyes were shrouded behind his heavy lids.

"They took him for questioning to La Santé Prison, a place well-known for its security, as I'm sure you have heard, or read in the papers, no doubt," replied Garnier with a grimace.

Christine stood in alarm. La Santé was notorious for its mistreatment of its prisoners. Erik would not be safe there! Whatever the truth of his disappearance, she could not leave him locked up in a cage! The thought made her shudder in abhorrence.

"Mademoiselle, you cannot go there!" Garnier stood as well, as if sensing her intentions before she realized she had been thinking them.

"You cannot stop me!" she cried, her determination rising. She headed for the door.

"Mademoiselle, you must not go," he repeated firmly, his arm extended out to her placatingly. But it was something in his voice that stopped her.

"I have already been there, and I have learned something you will find distressing," he admitted quietly. He sat down in his chair as she stood still, staring at him, before he continued, "I hesitated to tell you until I received confirmation, but if it will prevent you from acting so rashly, Erik would have wished for you to know."

Garnier's tone was somber, and she returned to her seat, prepared to hear him out. She was already fearing his next words, even before he spoke them. He opened his mouth, but then closed it again, shaking his head in indecision. Finally, he pulled open the top drawer of his desk and slid something across the messy surface to her. The light from the window caught the white of it, and it gleamed brightly, momentarily blinding her. When her eyes regained focus, she gasped in disbelief. It was Erik's mask!

"Where did you get this?" she asked, eyeing it in dismay. Erik would never have willingly given it to anybody.

"Inspector Cassel gave it to me," said Garnier gravely.

Christine could barely find the courage to ask her next question. "Why?"

Garnier shrugged and angled his body away from her, no longer meeting her gaze. "I do not know the details. They took Erik to the prison, but after that…" He gave a great sigh, spreading his hands wide, before adding very slowly, "Inspector Cassel has reported Erik missing."

"What do you mean? Missing?" asked Christine in apprehension. There was something Garnier was not saying; she could sense it.

He hesitated, then stated in a tone so low she could barely hear him, "Erik is presumed to be dead."

Christine sat in a stupor for a moment, unable to comprehend his words. It couldn't be true!

"No, you're wrong!" she cried, leaping from the chair to pace across the room.

"There was an _incident_. The inspector would not elaborate," he called to her, his hands gesturing for her to return to her seat, but her feet continued to move, almost of their own volition. She crossed the room from one end to the other, then repeated the gesture while Garnier watched her grimly.

"Perhaps he escaped," she reasoned, her mind racing ahead of her as she halted abruptly, waiting for Garnier to agree with her. Surely, that was it! There could be no other explanation.

"No one has ever escaped from La Santé. That is why Erik was brought there," countered Garnier, the corner of his lips forming a deep frown. He was trying to reason with her, but she would not listen to him.

"They do not know Erik! He is not like other men!" cried Christine, stamping her foot on his wooden floor as a counterattack to his dreadful words.

Garnier stared at her sadly. "You're right. He is not like other men."

He sighed, letting his head fall into his hands. He truly looked grieved. He was not jesting with her or lying. He was telling her what he believed to be the truth.

But she couldn't believe it; she wouldn't!

"Erik cannot be—" Christine could not say the last word aloud.

When Garnier spoke next, his voice was sincere, "Perhaps you are right, and we _can_ hold out hope, but the inspector would not lie to me. I have known him for years. He is an honest man. Mademoiselle, you should prepare yourself. I'm very sorry. Truly, I am."

He gazed at her steadily until she turned away, no longer able to face the reality of his words. As her emotions rushed over her, Christine grabbed the mask from Garnier's desk, clutching it to her chest, daring him to take it from her. Then, she exited the room without another word. She ran up the stairs to the guest suite, the mask held tightly in her hands. She flung herself upon the bed after slamming the door behind her, her feelings of despair overwhelming her.

Erik was her whole world; she could not lose him now!

Sobbing into the blankets, her eyes burned as she cried. She could not stop the flow of her tears; they rushed out of her like rain water. Time ceased to exist, and darkness descended upon the room, but she did not care or even bother to look up. She cried into the bed, burying herself in the covers, wishing she could sink through them and disappear, as Erik had done, until she could cry no more. She clung to the mask in misery, her forehead pressed against it as though she were face to face with Erik. The cool material was soothing against her heated skin. She kissed and caressed the smooth surface of it, pressed her cheeks against it, and slid her fingers lovingly over it, imagining she was touching Erik's face instead. She was afraid if she let go, he would fade away from her completely, so she held onto the mask like a lifeline, a way to keep him with her forever. As her sobs subsided, sleep eventually overtook her. She was exhausted, and her eyes had finally run dry, red and raw and empty of tears.

That's when her dreams began…

* * *

She knew she must be dreaming as she floated through a swirling mist of music, the shapes and shadows twisting and turning around her, a shifting kaleidoscope of gray, colorless shades filled with glorious sound. The music held all the color as her sight obviously deceived her. Only in dreams could music produce colors, the magic of art brought to life like reverberating rainbows in her mind. Yet, the dream felt real. She could feel her body. She could see her breath. She was cold. The air was thick and humid like she was standing near water. And there was someone in the shadows—a man, but she could not see his face. His presence filled the air like light and candle-smoke.

She had no sense of time or place, only his presence to guide her forward. His loving hands caressed her body without touching her, moving her onward to him. She _had_ been here before; she was sure of it. Hazy clouds surrounded her in the night, obscuring her vision. Her senses were heightened, and she held out one hand, certain she would find who she was seeking. She suddenly realized she had been looking for him; she had been searching for him all along. She could nearly feel his fingertips on hers, but her hands grasped nothing but empty air when she reached out for him.

Had she imagined him there? His image swam before her, then disappeared: a flash of his cloak, a trace of his hat, a gleam of the buttons on his waistcoat. She whirled around to glimpse him again, the glitter of his eyes brightening, before he vanished.

This was madness! Surely, he was real.

A cold shiver coursed through her body, raising gooseflesh on her arms as she reached for him again. Around and around they went in a dance, spinning in circles, arms extended, but never, ever touching each other. He was as far from her as a distant star.

She turned once more, and finally he stood still and solid before her, his great black cloak unfurling like gossamer wings. He was the angel sent to find her; or had she been meant to find him? He moved to embrace her, and she was ready for him to carry her away in the night. She waited for his arms to enfold her, but when she stepped forward to meet him, she passed right through him. He was a true phantom! A dream within her dream, for he existed only in her mind.

A voice interrupted the music in the dark, and her angel disappeared. She tried to call out to him, but she could not speak. She had no voice of her own. Without him, it was lost to her.

"He is gone!" the voice cackled, like the strange woman she had met this afternoon. Who was she? She could not recall. She could only hear her laughter.

Echoes of the word "gone" persisted as faces emerged before her. She knew these faces, recognized them, but she could not remember their names: a woman with red hair, a man with a ruddy face, another man with pinched features, beady eyes, and spectacles. Who were they? She felt like it should matter, but next to her angel, they were inconsequential. She wanted them to leave. She wanted her angel to return.

Their voices rang out, mimicking her, mocking her. Then, their laughter turned deep. It bellowed into the night.

She turned and saw another man: handsome, strong, and steady. His presence should have been comforting, yet why did she feel so afraid? The vision shifted, and he was no longer handsome. Instead, his face was terrifying in the dark, confirming her sudden fears.

"He is gone!" repeated the man, holding out his hand to her. She did not take it. She tried to step away, but she could not move. She was rooted in place, a rose planted where she could not bloom, where she would never be able to breathe and grow. His hand snatched at her arm like a claw and pulled her face close to his with a sneer.

"He is gone!" the voice laughed. "And you are mine."


	11. Chapter 11 - Things Have Changed

A/N: Some of the dialogue from _LND_ has been included in the final scene of this chapter. As usual, I own nothing! Thank you for reading!

* * *

 **Chapter 11 - Things Have Changed**

Christine woke in a sweat, her hair covering her face. She tried to brush her curls aside, but they clung to her damp cheeks and neck like strangling vines. Slowly, she pushed herself to a sitting position on the bed. A block of sunlight spilled through the curtains, casting a pale halo of light over her, reflecting off the gold of the clock on the dresser and drawing her attention to it. The night had come and gone, and it was morning—another morning without Erik at her side.

Disoriented from her dream, which was quickly fading to dust, she took a few deep breaths before spying Erik's mask lying just out of her reach. She had held it in her sleep, but now it rested on the pillow where Erik had slept, as if he had left it there for her to find in his stead. She slid her hand along the cloudy blue coverlet, the tips of her fingers grazing lovingly over its smooth surface before she picked it up, her hand trembling.

Her actions felt familiar. She had once grasped his mask in a similar way, the first time she had torn it from his face, and he had raged at her. In pity and compassion, she had handed it back to him, and he had looked at her with such adoration. He had flung hurtful words at her, cursed at her, yet he had pleaded with her to see the beauty underneath. He had loved her even then. Why had she not seen it? How had she been so blind?

She hugged the mask, holding it desperately to her heart, wishing it was Erik. If she could magically make him appear, she would; but she was not capable of such power. Only Erik possessed the ability to conjure himself from thin air; and sadly, she had never learned his trick. Now, she feared she never would. Like everything else, the magic and mystery had disappeared with him. After the death of her father, she had been an empty shell, going through the motions of her daily life with little care for herself or anything in it. Erik had brought music and wonder into her world, awakening her senses in ways she was sure would never be repeated in her lifetime. Without him, she was an empty shell once more.

She heard a light knock on the door. She did not respond. She did not want to see anyone. But when the knock persisted, a little louder than before, a fleeting voice in her head said it could be Erik. She knew she was wrong; yet there was still that small vestige of hope that had yet to be extinguished.

She squeaked out, "Come in."

It was not Erik, of course. She had thought, just through her sheer will of wanting it, she could make it happen; but of course, she was wrong. She remembered Nadir saying Erik did not knock so politely on a door, and her head knew this was true. Still, her heart had hoped for him. She wondered if that feeling would ever go away; or if she was forever destined to be disappointed by her foolish imaginings.

Monsieur Garnier entered the room, and Christine sat up, brushing her curls and tears away from her face. She rubbed her sleeve against her cheeks with one arm, not caring for her lack of social grace. Let Garnier see her cry! Her other hand still clutched the mask.

Garnier stood by the bed, and when she did not rise further, he pulled the chair away from the desk nearby and sat, staring at her with pity and sadness. He had something tucked underneath his arm, and when Christine realized what it was, she gasped.

A newspaper!

"No!" she cried. She did not want to see that newspaper!

Garnier was silent, unmoving for so long he was like a statue. The cold rays of the sun shining down on him through the window were unflattering; every line on his weary face was visible. For a moment, she felt a stab of pity herself. This man was upset. He was grieving himself! She could see it in the way his eyes crinkled in regret and misery for what he must tell her.

After a long while, Garnier pulled the paper from under his arm, unfolded it and held it out to her. He did not move from the chair, thus forcing her to retrieve it herself, if she wanted it. She did not want it.

Christine hesitated.

With shaking hands, she reached for the paper, its black and white print a stark contrast to the blue of the bedspread as she set it down before her. She hovered over it, unable and unwilling to read the words on the page. Her vision blurred; she knew what it said without having to see it.

" _Erik is dead!"_

The words swam on the page before her as she opened and closed her eyes through her tears.

"I'm sorry," said Garnier, his strong voice from the day before gone. His words were a gasping breath. "He was my friend, though you may not believe it. I'm sure he would not have thought it, but I always considered him so. He was a brilliant man, and I am very sorry for your loss."

He rose from the chair and went over to the clock. He stared at it a second, then heaved a sound somewhere between a garbled sigh and a groan.

"Erik left something for you," he declared, as he pulled open the top drawer of the dresser directly beneath where the clock and roses sat above it. He pulled out a portfolio, thick and leather-bound, the color of rust—or dried blood, Christine thought morbidly.

"He wanted you to have this," he said, as he handed the folder to her. It fell heavily into her lap as she grasped it.

Christine opened the flap and lifted out a few pages. The sheet music gleamed with ink the color of her red rose on the dresser. As she shuffled through the pages, to her consummate shock, she saw it was _Don Juan Triumphant_. This was not a copy, but the original libretto written in Erik's own hand. It was the entire manuscript intact, the complete work of Erik's lifetime. It had not been lost or destroyed in the bowels of the Opera House. Her fingers trembled as she held it in disbelief.

"You may stay as long as you like," said Garnier after what seemed like a very long while. "I know you need time to process this. I will call for a carriage when you are ready to leave."

Christine sighed, glancing around her. She did not belong in this house. Earlier, she had wanted nothing more than to flee from it, but her last lingering memory of Erik was in this room. She forced herself to say the words, but her body did not move from the bed. "No, I must go home," she murmured.

But where was home now? Without Erik, she had no home.

Garnier nodded and fell silent.

"There is one more thing before you go," he announced when she said no more. He moved over to the dresser and leaned against it, folding his hands and nodding as if concluding something important. "I always liked this clock. It sat in the draftsman's office at the Opera for ages until I took it home one day. Erik made other pieces for the building, so he didn't mind, and he knew of my fondness for it."

Feeling numb, her mind cloudy, Christine tried to comprehend his words. "If you like it so much, why is it up here where no one can see it?" she asked after a moment.

"No one but random houseguests?" he reminded her with a slight, ironic turn of his mouth. "I rather liked the idea of impressing my guests with it. Of course, I never thought Erik would see it here."

His mouth turned down.

Erik had said the room had not been dusted in years. Christine also recalled how the timid maid had shied away from the clock.

"How often do you have them? Guests, I mean?" she inquired.

"Not often," admitted Garnier. He swallowed, and she thought she saw tears coming to his eyes. "Before this was the guest room, it was my daughter's room. Sadly, we lost her a few years ago."

Christine had not expected him to say that. "I'm sorry," she said quietly.

Garnier sighed and gave a helpless gesture. "Louise was never the same after Anne died. She closed up this room, hardened her heart. She would have sold that clock if Anne hadn't loved it so much."

Though it did not entirely justify Madame Garnier's behavior to her earlier, Christine suddenly had a better understanding of why the woman had come across as cruel and heartless. Her heart had been broken by the death of her daughter. Christine understood how the death of a loved one could completely change a person. She had been lost after father had died and would have withdrawn from the world completely, if not for Erik.

"Anne loved the chimes, you see," said Garnier, motioning to the clock. "She was a musician and a gifted one at that. The piano downstairs in the parlor was hers."

Christine thought of the dead flowers strewn across the lonely piano, once loved but no longer being played.

"What is the story behind the clock?" asked Christine with curiosity. "Do you know? Who is the girl?"

"Erik didn't tell you?" he asked, surprised. "I thought he might, considering…"

Christine shook her head sadly. "He promised he would someday, but—" her words broke off. She could not finish her sentence. The tears threatened her eyes again.

Garnier gazed at her sympathetically. "Only Anne knew the full story. And perhaps Erik made it up for her. One can never tell with Erik," he added with a small shrug. "Anne was quite fond of Erik."

"Your daughter knew Erik?" asked Christine with surprise.

He nodded. "Weeks before her death, Anne's eyesight became impaired by her illness. She could see shapes and shadows, darkness and light, but all clarity was lost to her. Erik tried to help, but nothing could be done."

Garnier paused, and Christine could see the pain in his eyes as he remembered his past.

"Anne never saw his face," he continued with a frown. "In those days, it was hard to tear Erik away from the building of the Opera House. He practically lived there; and, of course, eventually he never left. I did not discover this until years later, when by chance I stumbled upon him in the catacombs. But that is a tale for another time. The week before Anne died, Erik sat with her every day. Anne was fond of books, but she could no longer read. Erik told her stories. One was the story of the clock."

"What was it?" asked Christine.

"I do not know the entire tale. I wish I did…" his voice trailed off, before he continued, "But my daughter told me Erik had envisioned a beautiful maiden in white, lost amidst a garden of discarded letters, weeping over the loss of a loved one. He carved the maiden lovingly from that vision."

He paused, then added, "Sadly, the clock has not chimed since Anne's death. I'm sure years of neglect have ruined the timepiece."

Christine looked at him in surprise. "You're wrong. I heard the chimes myself, the last two nights and yesterday morning."

Funny, she thought, she had not heard the clock chime this morning.

Garnier frowned. "That is odd," he said. "Are you quite sure?"

She nodded.

"Then it makes my gift all the more appropriate," said Garnier, and he nodded again with decision.

"You want me to have the clock?" she guessed.

"Yes, I believe it should be with someone who will appreciate it. And I believe Erik would have wished it as well," he replied. "It's the least I can do."

She gave him a small smile, suddenly grateful that she had met him. "Thank you, monsieur."

He nodded slightly. "I will have my man box up the clock and accompany you home when you are ready."

Before he left the room, Christine called out to him quietly, and he paused. "I think Erik was lucky to have you as a friend, monsieur."

He shook his head to deny it, but something in his eyes said he was grateful for her words. "On the contrary, I was lucky to have known him. The Opera House, as we know it, would not exist without him. I may have been the architect in plan and design, but the creation was all Erik's. It saddens me that Paris will never know what he truly contributed with his genius."

"You and I know," said Christine, and he agreed with a small acknowledgement.

"But is that enough?" he countered. "Is it enough for a man who could have had the applause of so many to have known it from only a few? It pains me to think on it; he who could have been emperor reduced to such anonymity. When he could have been _emperor_! Ah, Erik! You deserved more, my friend, so much more!"

And with a little nod of reverence heavenward and a slight bow to Christine, he left the room, closing the door behind him.

* * *

Christine stood aimlessly in the middle of her little apartment. It had been only two days since she had last been there, but it felt like she had lived a lifetime in the interim. She had loved and lost Erik in those two days. A part of her had lived and died in two days. She didn't know who she was anymore.

Garnier's servant had set the box of Erik's belongings on the bureau. She lifted it, its heavy contents weighing her down, yet it could not match the heaviness in her soul. If she stood still long enough, holding that box of memories, she was afraid she would sink right through the levels of the building into the ground below. A part of her wanted to bury herself, mourn the piece of her that had died with Erik.

Silently, she forced herself to move into the bedroom. Her mother's trunk sat at the end of the bed. Kneeling, she opened it and surveyed its contents. It did not hold much: a few treasures from her childhood, her mother's shawl of lavender silk, her father's violin. It was mostly empty. She had never earned or inherited enough for a proper trousseau.

Carefully, she pulled the gold clock from the box. She gently wrapped her mother's shawl around it and placed in the corner. Next to her father's violin case, she set the manuscript of _Don Juan Triumphant_ , along with Erik's mask. She slipped Erik's note with his words of love, stained with her blood, into a childhood book of fairytales. She would dry out the roses and add them to the trunk later. The only item left was the newspaper.

She hesitated, clutching the newspaper in her hands. She could not put those hateful words in a trunk filled with precious memories. Her heart would not allow it. If she did so, it would mean he was truly gone, a cold and final reminder of all she had lost.

Christine was suddenly afraid of Erik fading from her life, just as others had gone before him: her mother, Professor Valerius and his wife, and her father. Oh, her father! Her father's loss had been her deepest grief until now. There was no one left. One by one, they had all disappeared, and she was alone—truly alone.

But no! One person remained, as she spied her old red scarf hanging on a peg near the door. There was Raoul. Sighing deeply, Christine realized she still had Raoul. She closed her eyes as tears began to form. As numb as she felt, she was standing on the edge of an abyss. She could either plunge headlong into the treacherous waves and drown herself, taking her memories of Erik and everyone else with her, or she could attempt to save herself, pull herself back from the crumbling cliff which was rapidly falling away at her feet.

Opening her eyes with sad resolve, Christine knew what she must do.

* * *

Raoul forgave her in the end. He didn't have to, but he did. When she had shown up on his doorstep, her hands fisted around the newspaper, white as a sheet, he had pulled her into his house and into a comforting embrace.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he had murmured, cradling her in his arms. He had kissed her gently and whispered against her hair, repeating his words in a soothing tone until she had stopped trembling. "It will be all right. I promise. It will all be all right. You'll see."

She wanted to believe him, but she knew he was wrong, as large tears rolled down her cheeks. She knew nothing would ever be right again!

As the heavy door of the manor clanged shut with finality, Christine never saw the tall, thin shadow standing near the wrought iron gates outside, watching her and weeping with infinite sorrow.

* * *

"We had a chance, you and I," Christine's wistful voice carried on the wind as she gazed at the lights of Coney Island, bringing herself back to the present as Erik hovered uncertainly nearby. Her anger was fading away with the night. She felt as lost and lonely as Erik looked as he gazed at her in despair. "You chose to turn the page, to close the book on us."

He had dismissed and forgotten her as easily as if he had shut a novel. He had put her on a shelf and left her there.

"No!" He shook his head in dismay to deny it, his voice vehement. "You could not go where I was going, and it was not safe. It would have been no life for you!"

"You didn't even give me a choice!" she accused. He had always given her choices before—crazy, impossible choices, yes—but choices all the same; yet not when it had mattered most. No, he had made that decision for her. He had stolen her choice, like a thief in the night, never to return what was most precious to her.

"You _chose_ to marry Raoul," he reminded her bitterly, countering her thoughts and smashing them like glass. His tone was equally accusatory.

She glanced at him sadly, sighing, "What else could I have done? You were gone."

He turned away, his long coat swirling around his legs. She thought he was going to argue with her, but when he turned back, his eyes were pleading. "If I could go back and change things, I would. I'd make time itself somehow bend to my will. But I cannot. If only I had such powers. There would be nothing to forgive, and nothing for me to beg from you now."

Christine shrugged slightly, hearing him but denying his words. "Even _you_ cannot change the past. And over the years, I have learned a few things. We can only do what we can do. We live our lives to the best of our ability. We try to love others as best as we can. That's all we can do, Erik."

He moved closer to her, and she felt as though she was being pulled to him by some unknown force beyond her understanding. She wanted to lean into him, but just as his hand came up to cup her cheek, she caught herself and stepped away. She closed her eyes, the anger returning. Erik was angry as well, frustrated at her denial of him.

"I have done nothing but pine for you, yearn for you, for ten years!" he spat. "I've dreamt of this moment. You will not deny me now!"

She backed away from him, closer to the balustrade. She was suddenly afraid—not of Erik, but of what it meant to have him back in her life.

"You will sing for me," he commanded in a low tone. It had a dangerous edge to it. "That peerless instrument _will_ play for me again! And when you sing, you will lay to rest this ghost which has tortured me, tormented me for ten long years."

He advanced on her slowly, his movements seductive, as his emotions caught on a breathy sob. She shook her head, her curls flying as the railing dug into her back. She was cornered. He was begging her, demanding from her, and she had nowhere to run.

"Ah, Christine…" Erik must have realized his advantage for he stood straighter, rolling his shoulders back, his elegant coat swinging as he did so. She knew she was not going to like whatever he had to say next. "I spoke with Hammerstein. He and I are… _business acquaintances_ , you might say. I'm aware of your arrangement with him. I'm prepared to double the amount he has offered you for just one night's work here in _my_ Concert Hall."

"You spoke to him?" she asked, startled. "You had no right!"

She didn't care what sum he offered! If she sang for him again, it was over. She would lose herself to him again.

He ignored her outburst, continuing, "I know of your financial situation." He stepped closer, leaning over her. He was so enticing. She wanted to grab the beautiful, black embroidered lapels of his jacket and fall into him.

"One night, Christine! One song! That is all I ask of you!"

Oh, _those_ words!

His heart was at her feet once more. It hurt as much now as it had then, on stage during _Don Juan Triumphant_ all those years ago. She regretted what she must do in order to keep her sanity. She knew she still loved him; that truth could not be denied. But she also knew the damage _one night_ could do. She could not allow it.

"No!" She ducked under his arm, scurrying over to the other side of the balcony. She turned and looked at him defiantly. "Why should I? I mourned your loss for ten years! You deceived me, lied to me! I believed you were dead! And for ten years, you weren't there. You never tried to contact us! And now you lure us here and expect me to do _your_ bidding. Submit to you again."

She could feel the color rising in her cheeks at the thought of _submitting_ to him and all that implied. It would be so easy to do—so very easy! His golden gaze darkened a shade at her words. She had to break eye contact with him, or she would lose her resolve.

Us! She had said _us_! In that moment, she thought of the one thing that could change everything. The one thing she had purposely kept out of her thoughts. The one thing she couldn't tell him.

Suddenly, she was fearful. Not just of submitting to Erik's will again or her long-suppressed feelings for him, but of the very fact she could not deny him if he were ever to ask her.

"I won't do it!" she said stubbornly, her fear and anger making her shake. "You cannot make me do this. I owe you nothing!"

Erik eyed her steadily. She owed him everything, but she couldn't say that aloud! To do so, would break her.

As if on cue, her biggest fear came sprinting out onto the balcony in the flesh, flying into her arms with a tearful gasp.

" _Mother, please—I'm scared!"_ cried Gustave, burying his head against her stomach and wrapping his thin arms around her.

She would never forget the shocked intensity in Erik's eyes at that moment. She clutched her son to her tightly, to protect them both from that penetrating gaze.

"What a terrible dream!" her son continued, sobbing. "But it was so real. Something—no, _someone…_ Someone I've never met before, someone strange and mad, seized my arms and threw me into the ocean—and I was drowning… Oh, Mother—I was drowning! I couldn't breathe!"

Of all the nights for Gustave to have a nightmare, it had to be this one! He was prone to them from time to time, his vivid imagination feeding his thoughts, darkening them and making them real. He confessed them to her on occasion; but other times, he kept them to himself. His haunted eyes would meet hers at the breakfast table, and she would swear she was gazing into Erik's soul.

"Shh… Gustave, it's all right, darling," she soothed. She stroked his dark hair reassuringly.

When she glanced up at Erik, he still held that intense gaze. Did he not know she was a mother? Or had he forgotten? He had apparently orchestrated their meeting, so of course, he must have known. He had given Gustave the music box—had likely made it for him, and for her. So why would the shocked expression not leave his eyes?

She straightened up, smiling at Gustave. "I wish for you to meet someone, a friend of mine," she told him as sweetly as she could muster, emphasizing the word "friend."

Erik's demeanor changed entirely when Gustave disentangled himself from her and turned to look up at him with wide eyes.

"Hello, sir," said Gustave politely, holding out his hand and nodding like a gentleman. Erik eyed him for a moment but did not take his hand in return. He appeared to be assessing the boy for his sincerity.

"Welcome, young master, to _my_ world" he said with a courtly flourish. He bowed slightly, though a little stiffly.

"Gustave, this is… Mr. Y," she settled on, struggling to keep her tone polite and normal.

How was this situation anything _but_ normal? She was introducing the boy to his father—his _real_ father—for the first time. She felt like she was in a dream. Would they both sense it? Would they know it, simply by staring at one another? She held her breath.

"Your world? This place… is yours?" asked Gustave curiously, his mouth forming a little "o."

Erik nodded, apparently satisfied with whatever he had been searching for in Gustave's eyes. One hand swept out gracefully, pointing to a place far below them.

"See those gates with the bright lights burning around the perimeter… just there? Every inch of space from here to those gates, leading up to the ocean, is _mine_ ," said Erik proudly.

Gustave gazed out wonderingly over the balcony railing at the lights beyond. "Where _are_ we exactly?"

Erik chuckled. "We're in _Phantasma_ , little vicomte. On Coney Island!"

Christine felt a stab of annoyance at Erik's pet name for Gustave. Little vicomte, indeed! If only he knew!

" _This is a world of fantasy, where illusion is emperor!"_ continued Erik dramatically. It sounded like a tag line for the park. He grabbed the boy and placed his little feet on the balcony railing. Christine gasped in alarm, clutching at Gustave's arm for balance.

"Where would you like to go?" asked Erik, leaning closer to Gustave and whispering conspiratorially in his ear. "Tell me, what would you like to see? I can grant _any_ wish."

Gustave was delighted, but Christine was distressed. Erik, however, was insistent, holding out a hand to show the boy was fine perched on the edge of the railing. Erik's eyes were sincere, though intense when he glanced at her. A voice in her ear whispered a reassurance. To have his voice inside her head again was startling. Despite this, she did not let go of Gustave's arm. She hooked her fingers around the sleeve of his blue-striped pajamas.

"I won't let him fall," said the voice in her head. "Do you not trust your old maestro?"

Did she trust him? She wasn't sure. She realized she was not certain of anything anymore. Erik's reappearance was incomprehensible; only Gustave's presence on the balcony made the scene feel real to her.

"Could—could you show me all the mysteries of the island? All the mysteries of _Phantasma_?" asked Gustave politely, though hesitantly. Despite this, Christine could hear the excitement in his voice. Erik had sparked his insatiable curiosity. He stared at Erik shyly, but his next words were bold. "I want to see all the strange things, all the wild and dark things I have read about, in the shadows of the park."

Erik chuckled again, surprised and pleased.

Goodness, they were so alike, side by side! It was a wonder Erik didn't guess the truth right then and there.

"Yes, indeed! I will show you everything, starting tomorrow," Erik told Gustave, pulling him safely from the railing and setting him firmly on his feet. "I promise you will see it all. But first, I must discuss the arrangements with your mother. You understand?"

Gustave nodded eagerly, and Christine gave Erik a stern look as he led the boy by the shoulders back into the hotel suite.

Surely, he wasn't serious? Erik give Gustave a tour of the island? How could she allow such a thing?

"Time to go to sleep now, Gustave," said Christine quietly, but firmly, guiding her son away from Erik as he shut one side of the balcony doors behind them. He left the other side open to the breeze.

"Why does he wear a mask, Mother?" came Gustave's innocent question. "Is he a _magician_?"

She hesitated, feeling Erik's eyes on her back. "Yes, dear, in a way."

Gustave seemed satisfied with that; in fact, he was a little too delighted. He kissed her goodnight and waved goodbye to Erik before heading to his bedroom. His nightmare had faded away to nothing after meeting Erik. However, as Christine watched him go, she decided she would check on him shortly, just to be sure there were no lingering effects from his dreams. But first, she had to deal with his father.

She could sense Erik's gaze on her as she slowly turned around to face him. They stared at each other for a long, lingering moment, the air charged with tangible electricity despite the distance between them. She wished she could read his mind.

"He favors you," said Erik, contemplatively. "He is more like you than like _him_ , at least."

He started pacing. Christine could almost see the wheels of his incomparable mind turning. What had he seen in Gustave in those five minutes he wasn't telling her? _He is like you, too,_ she thought. But she didn't say it aloud. A part of her wanted to tell him the truth, until he said his next words.

"Coney Island is a big place. A man can get lost in it, never mind a boy who is wrapped up in all its wonders," said Erik, absentmindedly. He paced a few steps, stopped, and stared at her again. "You _will_ help me through this sadness. Do this kindness for your mentor, Christine. And I will guide your son through the island, prevent him from falling into mishaps so common with curious young boys his age. He could get into trouble on his own, get lost, disappear—do you understand what I am saying? I will watch over him, protect him. You have _my_ word on that, if I have _yours_."

His hands came up, palms out, fingers splayed wide, and he indeed looked like a magician, a man who had the power of making her son vanish into thin air.

"What are you saying?" she asked him warily.

His gaze was intense, but he said no more.

Surely, she was misunderstanding him! She felt a moment of pity that quickly turned to outrage.

 _Oh Erik! If only you knew you were threatening your own son!_

Something in Erik's gaze shifted as he stared at her. He was suddenly just as angry in return, but before he could say a word, she shouted, "You have changed! I do not know you anymore! Who _are_ you, that you would even _suggest—_ "

Her words broke off, and she came at him with fury. Who _did_ he think he was? She knew very well how dangerous he could be, but _this_! He was lucky the piano stood between them for she had never been so livid with him in her life.

" _I am your Angel of Music!"_ he exploded, enraged. He came around the piano and grasped her upper arms, forcing her to meet his golden gaze which was blazing at her in hot fury. This was her Phantom in all his menacing glory. He shook her slightly, pulling her to him, his body pressed tightly against hers. For all his anger, she could feel his arousal. They were in a dangerous position, so close to one another. It would be easy to give in, melt into his arms and surrender to him.

"Sing for me!" he said, his lips close to hers. Despite his words of a moment ago, she wanted to rise on her toes and meet them. Just an imperceptible breath, she thought, as her heart pounded in her chest. She could see the veins throbbing in his neck. One slight move from her in his direction was all it would take to push them off the edge.

She must clear her head. He was threatening her. He was threatening their son. Her body hummed with a familiar, peculiar energy, but her heart wanted to cry. She broke away from him and sank onto the piano bench, her back to him as her body shook from a myriad of emotions ranging from desire and despair to defeat and desperation.

She heard a light sigh from behind her. It sounded almost sad.

"Well, Christine, what is your answer? Did you not expect this from me? Am I not a hideous monster who is _capable of anything?_ Isn't that what you believe?"

When she didn't answer, he slammed his hand down hard on the piano. The instrument echoed dully from the force of his blow.

She did not dare to look at him, not when he was like _this_ —so far into his self-loathing, he could not comprehend what he was doing! Or maybe he could. She didn't know which thought was scarier.

"One song?" she relented quietly after a long silence of nothing but their mutually heavy breathing. Her heart was threatening to leap out from under her breast.

She could feel his exhale of victory on the back of her neck as he pulled sheet music off the piano stand behind her. Chills ran down her back, thrilling her blood with a vibrating hum.

"One song," he agreed exultantly.

It was _Don Juan Triumphant_ all over again. She sighed, fearing history was about to repeat itself.

"I will sing for you, and then… what? Then, we can leave?" she dared to ask him.

"Yes," he said, coming to stand in front of her. She didn't look up as he handed her a handsome brown, leather-bound folder. She avoided touching his long, beautiful fingers. "And you will, of course, be _well paid_ for your efforts."

She shut her eyes tightly. Worse than singing the song was _this_ —this stipulation hanging over her head she wished she could make disappear. He knew they were desperate, knew their weaknesses, and was willing to exploit them.

"Well, Christine? Will you stay and sing, or will you go?" he asked, his voice dangerously low.

Ah, and here was her impossible choice, then! She wondered, if he had given her the choice to stay with him after _that night_ all those years ago, if the choice would have felt just as impossible.

Erik did not wait for her answer. She could hear his footsteps retreating as she stared at the composition book in her hands. Slowly, she opened it. This was what Gustave had been playing earlier in the evening as the music sat innocently on the piano stand. Gustave had noticed it there, and she had stopped and listened to him intently, transfixed by the exquisite melody.

"Do you have to play that now?" Raoul had asked irritably.

"I think it's _beautiful,"_ Gustave had declared, his fingers playing the notes lightly with one hand.

"What is it? I've never heard it before," Raoul had barely glanced up from his drink.

"I don't know," Gustave had replied curiously. "It was just here on the piano."

" _Well, it hurts my head!"_ Raoul had told him crossly.

Now, as Christine followed the notes on the page, she began to hum, reading along with the lyrics:

" _Love never dies. Love never falters…"_

 _Oh Erik!_ She scanned the rest of the song in wonder. Had he written this for her?

She stood up, planning to tell him how beautiful it was, but he was gone! He had not left through the main door of the suite. She would have seen him. She walked over to the edge of the balcony. It was empty! The curtain was blowing gently in the breeze. He had simply disappeared, almost as mysteriously as he had come. She nearly dropped the sheet music.

"The _insolence_ of that man!" Raoul strode through the front door of the suite fuming.

Startled back to reality, Christine watched as he plopped down in a chair unceremoniously.

"Who?" she asked. She knew he was not talking about Erik! But her thoughts were still clouded by him.

"Hammerstein!" cried Raoul, looking at her as if she had grown two heads. "He wasn't at the hotel bar! He wasn't anywhere to be found, and hotel staff was no help at all. This place is _insane_!"

"Ah," she said, nodding absently. She was not ready to confess the entire truth of what had happened with Erik to him yet, but she had to tell him something. "Raoul, I…"

She had tried to keep her voice steady, but her words died with a tremble.

"Christine?" he asked, concerned, his eyes serious as they met hers. It felt like the first time he had even noticed her since they had arrived on the island.

And just like that, she was a girl again, back in her dressing room at the Opera, staring at her young suitor who had brought her a rose and come to take her to dinner. He had not listened then, when she had tried to tell him about the Angel of Music. Would he listen now?

"Things have changed, Raoul."


End file.
